'T is the same old tale I would repeat,
That life is short and that time is fleet;
The hour has flown ere we've taken breath,
And we find ourselves at the gates of Death.
The blood that has rolled through our youthful vein
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Will never retrace its course again;
But the words that escape our burning lip
Do not, like youth, in oblivion slip.
And the deeds that a youthful impulse move
An eternal judgment yet may prove,
And the thoughts that a youthful bosom bore
In eternal echoings yet may roar.
Then away with the myth of a happy youth,
'T is a dream that but tells us half the truth;
For a living life in death are we,
Till the angel Death shall have set us free.
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Typhoid at Yale.
