John White Chadwick (1840–1904)

O SOUL of mine, how few and short the years

Ere thou shalt go the way of all thy kind,

And here no more thy joy or sorrow find

At any fount of happiness or tears!

Yea, and how soon shall all that thee endears

To any heart that beats with love for thee

Be everywhere forgotten utterly,

With all thy loves and joys, and hopes and fears!

But, O my soul, because these things are so,

Be thou not cheated of to-day’s delight.

When the night cometh, it may well be night;

Now it is day. See that no minute’s glow

Of all the shining hours unheeded goes;

No fount of rightful joy by thee untasted flows.