Oh , whither does the spirit flee
That makes existence seem
A day-dream of reality,
Reality a dream?

We enter on the race of life,
Like prodigals we live,
To learn how much the world exacts
For all it hath to give.

The fine gold soon becometh dim,
We prove its base alloy;
And hearts, enamoured once of bliss,
Ask peace instead of joy.

Spectres dilate on every hand,
That seemed but tiny elves;
We learn mistrust of all, when most
We should suspect ourselves.

But why lament the common lot
That all must share so soon;
Since shadows lengthen with the day,
That scarce exist at noon.