Life Is The Game That Must Be

For Through It All--above, Beyond It All-- I Know The Far-sent Message Of The Years, I Feel The Coming Glory Of The Light.

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

And Thus We All Are Nighing The Truth We Fear To Know: Death Will End Our Crying For Friends That Come And Go.

To Some Will Come A Time When Change Itself Is Beauty, If Not Heaven.

No Matter What We Are, And What We Sing, Time Finds A Withered Leaf In Every Laurel