by Henry King (1592-1669)
18th October 2011: from Euphoria
This verse by the 17th century poet Henry King makes me think of my blighted life as still brilliant and majestic as an afterglow of how I feel it once was:
Like to the falling of a Starre;
Or as the flights of Eagles are;
Or like the fresh springs gawdy hew;
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 borrow’d light
Is streight call’d in, and paid to night.
The Wind blowes out; The Bubble dies;
The Spring entomb’d in Autumn lies;
The Dew dries up; the Starre is shot;
The Flight is past; and Man forgot.