Frances Anne Kemble
Life - Poem by Frances Anne Kemble
At morn—a mountain ne'er to be climbed o'er,
A horn of plenty, lengthening evermore;
At noon—the countless hour-sands pouring fast,
Waves that we scarce can see as they run past;
At night—a pageant over ere begun,
A course not even measured and yet run,
A short mysterious tale—suddenly done.
At first—a heap of treasure, heaven-high;
At last—a failing purse, shrunk, lean, and beggarly.
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