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Your life is like a little winter's day
Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon ;
You have just come — why will you go away,
Making an evening of what should be noon.
Your life is like a little flute complaining
A long way off, beyond the willow trees :
A long way off, and nothing left remaining
But memory of a music on the breeze.
Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking
Wept in a dream before a man's awaking,
A Call with only shadows to attend :
A Benediction whispered and belated
Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated,
A consecrated silence at the end.
Hilaire Belloc