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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Thursday, November 3, 2011

time past..never happy

On winds the woeful clock
Chanting our fleeting time
Mocking our mortality
And here sit we to sulk
In anxious tribulation
Decaying slowly
And when does a bright dawn
Ascend upon vibrant trees
Whose branches flutter in cheer
Whose leaves shine green
And the sun is purer
Than God himself
Still shall the sheen
Of those vast blue skies
Subside into the past
The past always imagined
So much brighter
Than today.
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