Sic Vita

Sic Vita 
by Henry King 

Or as the flights of Eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue;
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood;
Or bubbles which on water stood;

Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to night.

      The Wind blows out; the Bubble dies;
      The Spring entombed in Autumn lies;
      The Dew dries up; the Star is shot;
      The Flight is past; and Man forgot.