Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours: Some measure days by dreams, And some by flowers: My heart alone records My days and hours. - Madison Cawein

Why will we struggle to attain, and strive
When all we gain is but an empty dream?—
Better, unto my thinking, doth it seem
To end it all and let who will survive;<p>To find at last all beauty is but dust;
That love and sorrow are the very same;
That joy is only suffering's sweeter name;
And sense is but the synonym of lust.<p>Far better, yea, it seems to me to die;
To set glad lips against the lips of Death—
The only thing God gives that comforteth,
The only thing we do not find a lie.

A rope, a prayer, and an oak-tree near,
And a score of hands to swing him clear.
A grim, black thing for the setting sun
And the moon and the stars to look upon.

When death hath poured oblivion through my veins
And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie
In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,—
I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,
For beauty born of beauty—that remains.