We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Weeps that no love endures.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever God may see,
That no man lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers
Desires and dreams, and powers
And everything but sleep.
A.C. Swinburne
(with slight alterations)