by Leonard Shaw

Alas! You know only the simple ways:
For such a man the days fly and flitter
From one week to the next,
Till the term, the year, the life is o’er.

Upon a passing fancy in the street or in a carriage,
One can only wonder surely when the next may come to be.
And yet the answer, taunting, playful even, dangling from a string,
Sits like ripe grapes above our head.

As long as I am here among you,
I could never tell,
What lies beyond is not yet for our eyes.
And yet, despite such, I have my own;
My paradise, dear friend, is not for yours.