When is life other than a tragedy,
Whether it is played in tears from the first scene,
In sable robes and grief's mute pageantry,
For loves that died ere they had ever been,
Or whether on the edge of joys set keen,
While all the stage with laughter is agog,
Death stepping forward with an altered mien Pulls off his mask, and speaks the epilogue?
Life is a play acted by dying men,
Where, if its heroes seem to foot it well And go light--tongued without grimace of pain,
Death will be found anon.
And who shall tell Which part was saddest, or in youth or age,
When the tired actor stops and leaves the stage?
