Life

Life, says the cynic, is a dusty road,
     Thorn-paven, verdureless, and death the goal, 
     Where, tired of its companionship, the soul 
Throws off its worthless clay, a weary load, 
And — more we know not; though of its abode 
     Conjecture frames a thousand idle dreams. 
     All vague alike, and vain: so Reason deems. 
Life, says the Christian, is a gift bestowed
     By the All-Good, who bids us use its hours 
Wisely, as still they pass on rapid wing, 
And each shall its peculiar blessing bring
     In peace of mind and renovated powers. 
Thus live, and Death shall vanquish Life in vain, 
Since his brief triumph is thine endless gain!