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(1552 - 1618 / Devon / England)

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Life

What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's 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 setting 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.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004


Read poems about / on: passion, music, mother, heaven, sun, life, house

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Comments about this poem (Nature that Washed Her Hands in Milk by Sir Walter Raleigh )

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  • Adriano Andrade (11/24/2005 10:53:00 AM)

    This poem is simply great! ! !

    Adriano Andrade

    3 person liked.
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