A Tale Of Vanity
A tale of vanity is all I hear,
The birds thus sing, the wind thus whistle;
The leaves are falling,
The clouds are grey;
The beauty of spring laid as heap,
The glory of the sun is thus a tale!
Why then is Man blind
That he can not see?
Why trust in the flesh?
When it withers in season,
Why hope in the sun?
If it fades in time,
Why is he persuaded to labor in vain?
When he soon lies as ashes,
Why live in this fleeting moment?
When it is trifling and vile;
Or run after riches, when it won't endure!
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