“O who can ever gaze his fill,”
     Farmer and fisherman say,
“On native shore and local hill,
Grudge aching limb or callus on the hand?
Father, grandfather stood upon this land,
And here the pilgrims from our loins shall stand.”
     So farmer and fisherman say
     In their fortunate hey-day:
But Death’s low answer drifts across
Empty catch or harvest loss
     Or an unlucky May:
The earth is an oyster with nothing inside it
     Not to be born is the best for man;
The end of toil is a bailiff’s order
     Throw down the mattock and dance while you can.

“O life’s too short for friends who share,”
     Travellers think in their hearts,
“The city’s common bed, the air,
The mountain bivouac and the bathing beach,
Where incidents draw every day from each
Memorable gesture and witty speech.”
     So travellers think in their hearts,
     Till malice or circumstance parts
Them from their constant humour:
And slyly Death’s coercive rumour
     In that moment starts.
A friend is the old tale of Narcissus,
     Not to be born is the best for man;
An active partner in something disgraceful,
     Change your partner, dance while you can.