”WHAT is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
”Where we are dressed for this short comedy,
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest.
Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest.”
SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1554-1618)
I love Sir Walter Raleigh‘s poems, it’s poignant, somewhat melancholic but true. He hits the cord in the right places for me, and in a way, I want to be reminded of my fallibility, hence, my love for this morbid poem (so says my friend) Life is deceitfully short but our footsteps can still lead to great things if we so wish! My only prayer is, may generations yet unborn…
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