Classic Poem

That way Death lies in ambush, O my friend,
And Time no prayer can flatter or beguile:
Old Time is waiting with his ruthless smile —
To youth and love and beauty comes an end.
What comfort can thy pride, thy knowledge lend?
The fool, the wise, the noble and the vile,
All, all alike must tread the dark defile,
The black, inevitable gulf descend.

Time metes us out our minutes one by one,
To each his measured dole of joy and pain,
And every minute something may be done,
And something gained wherein he has no part,
Some touch divine, some rapture of the heart,
To conquer Time himself on Time's domain.