[Just following up on yesterday's post, and with apologies to John Donne]:
Life be not proud, though some have called thee
Precious and beautiful, for thou art no gift,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost uplift
Live not poor life, nor yet can'st thou thrill me.
From play and love, which but thy pictures be,
Much sorrow: then from thee much more must shift,
And soonest our best men do bear thy shrift,
Ache of the flesh and soul's injury.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, midwives and fond women,
And doth with nursing, care and physic last,
And coffee, or drugs, make the heart beat as fast
And wilder than thy pulse, why swellest thou then?
One short thrill past we sleep unrevived
And Life shall be no more, Life shall take its life.