Cento Emulations Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

The moving finger writes, and, having writ,
the Book of Life is signed and sealed to fit.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
are mirage lures, poor men in shadows cower.
I am here now, and gone tomorrow,
this vale of tears leads on to sorrow
though Green grow the rushes, Ho
from dark we spring, to darkness go
So gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
short lived are darling buds of May.

Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice
naught shall remain for in a trice
how tragedy and comedy embrace
the rise and fall of all the human race,
to his lamented loss, for time to come
the Fates bear witness, hear fear's dreaded drum.
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
means sods remain to never rise again,
for who would bear the whips and scorns of time
soon sinks, forgotten, corpses cannot rhyme!

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
repented soon for in Life's afternoon
If we might have a second chance  
perhaps we'd forge ahead, advance:
I shall be telling this with a sigh,
perhaps another road I'd try.
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
my wraith may lament opportunities flown,
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath  
no more will pour balm on my garden path.