Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/31

Yon’s a playwright—mark his face,
Puffed and purple, tense and tired;
Pasha-like he holds his place.
Hated, envied and admired.
How you gobble life, my friend;
Wine, and woman soft and pink!
Well, each tether has its end:
Sir, it’s later than you think.

See yon living scarecrow pass
With a wild and wolfish stare
At each empty absinthe glass,
As if he saw Heaven there.
Poor damned wretch, to end your pain
There is still the Greater Drink.
Yonder waits the sanguine Seine…
It is later than you think.

Lastly, you who read; aye, you
Who this very line may scan:
Think of all you planned to do…
Have you done the best you can?
See! the tavern lights are low;
Black’s the night, and how you shrink!
God! and is it time to go?
Ah! the clock is always slow;
It is later than you think;
Sadly later than you think;
Far, far later than you think.