If I think for more than a moment
Of my life that is passing by,
I am - to my thinking mind -
A cadaver waiting to die.
In a little while (the longest life
Amounts to a few short years),
I, with all I have had or missed,
With my delusions and my fears,
Will cease to have visible form
Here where the sun shines down,
And - dispersed and insensible,
Or else drunk with another dawn -
I suppose I will have lost
The warm and human contact
With the passing months and years,
With earth and the dreams it contains.
The sun may gild the face
Of the days, but soundless space
Reminds us it is just a facade:
In the night all things are erased.