How heavy this is,
My waking young soul.
So childish and meek,
So hapless and whole.

How stubborn this is,
The browning dry leaf.
Reminds me I’m but
A lifetime so brief.

A spindle or spoke,
In the world’s great wheel.
Features but a blur,
Of all that I feel.

But what use is this,
To lament my stay?
To curse tomorrow,
And not live today.