Life

At morn—a mountain ne'er to be climbed o'er,
  A horn of plenty, lengthening evermore;
  At noon—the countless hour-sands pouring fast,
  Waves that we scarce can see as they run past;
  At night—a pageant over ere begun,
  A course not even measured and yet run,
  A short mysterious tale—suddenly done.
  At first—a heap of treasure, heaven-high;
  At last—a failing purse, shrunk, lean, and beggarly.