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Alas, hardpressed the whirling orbs
And swift Titan hie fleeting hours,
And cleave delights with woe avid
Death might - fast on us, she strides!
Whilst I, onward, mark more the deep
Shadow of my wrongs that prey untold
On a heart cowed now by constant woe,
And with tears, my youthful faults I rue.
Power, delights, wealth, such ado,
Tho ne'er for naught, 'tis ill they work,
For our desire they turn astray
From its rightful bliss (God we name).
Brief gains! O blissful a hundredfold
Who knows quick these shadows' true shape!
Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski
Read poems about / on: power, work, death, god, heart, sonnet
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