The Swan Song

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

To-day  will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man’s lure;

And love grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes regretful

Weeps that no love endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever  gods may be

That no life lives forever,

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE