The lengthy cruise of life is full of war
From the gut of man to the way of womb
Having roved his ways on the hill and tor
His gains and self end in the trough of tomb

Is it to toil, to strive and yet to yield?
Or to bust a gut and, lo, come to naught?
Nay, the clouds are no more a sleeve to shield
Of joy, the world is short, but full of aught

The gash of its thorn is nowhere to heal
The docs are hard at it to soothe own pain
So the pangs, for him, become a stock meal
When the labour has proved to be in vain

But has he called to mind the clout of fate?
its weight is hard on the brow of the breast
Should he find the lost joy before it's late
Let him live the rest to regain the best

For in the sway of fate there lies the lot
Like the whoops of joy that stay till the end
And of affairs in ease that finish not
Just as in peace his minds in the rest spend