Songs

Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on a tree,
Or like the dainty flow’r of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done :
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, the man, he dies.

Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,
Or like a tale that’s new begun,
Or like a bird that’s here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death :
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan’s near death, — man’s life is done.