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The Game Of Life

The Game Of Life image
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WiTM eager hand Hope Jeftly woavea TRe maulle Unit our pri Jo would Jou, Whilu bU3V-íuigei'd C;we unreuves The garm"its ss we put ihem on. We roar uur palacea of joy, And trend thein with ezaltinf shout, Tili, cumbling round, tis plainly fouad Sopte eorner-stoncs have been left uut. And tifus we playth game uf Life, Shadow and substanee erar blending; 'ilid flowers of Peaco and tares of Slr.fd Gaily begiuiiiug, sadly cuding. The maiden'grccts lier swaiu to-day, 'J hoy jur to morrow, and she flou's lüin, Now sha believi-'8 whate'er he'll say, A month has gone.-alael she doubts lihn; The lover haugs upon a glanoe, With glowing trust and earncst sueing; Next year lie rouses from his trance. And loorni the one he late was woiDg. And thus we phiy the ganio of Life, Our dreaius dispeü'd, our plans defeated. And when we've lost with pain and cost, Still stand, as ready to be cheatod. The cooing infaut' rosy mouth Aptly reoeires the sweeten'd potion; When waves are calm, and winds are south, Noue see the dcath-rooks in theooean. Tlie rich man toils to "gather up," Meaning to bak in Foitune's clover. And while he pours into his cup, Ferceivss not it is running over. And thus we play the game of Life, Now simply snared, now wisely brooding, Now britjea by smiles, nuw speading wile. Living deluded and deluding. The poet pratlles to the s'ars, I'liüosophers diss et the tliunder, But botli are stopp'd by orystal bars' And stand ouUide to watch and wunder. We moralise on battle plaing, Where blood has pom-ed, and famo was We turn and ee the baby's glee [won, Over his mimie sword aud gun. And thus wo play the game of Life, 'Twixt holy Thought and fearful Deed. tome only stay to work aad pray, And sótne but live for Crime and Greed. Our fcet of clay trip up each other, Our wii gsof ether seek the sky; We breathe - wc are - child follows mother, Yet none can teil us "How?" or ''Whj?" Our hearts likeclocks, keep tieking fast, ft'e climb and laugh, we full and weej), Till, tired of guessing, at th e last We sulve the riddle in a sloep. And thus we play the game of Life, In motly garba of Grief and Fleasure, Till we are drest in that green vest For which the sexton takes our measurs.