* * *

’Tis time, my friend, ’tis time! For rest the heart is aching;
Days follow days in flight, and every day is taking
Fragments of being, while together you and I
Make plans to live. Look, all is dust, and we shall die.

No happiness, — but rest and freedom life possesses.
Long to an envied fate my dreaming fancy presses,
And long, a wearied servant, have I plotted flight
To some far cloister where are work and pure delight.