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CARRIER'S ADDRESS
'T is but a year,—a single heave Of Life's unresting wave,—Yet every surge impels us on Toward the end—the grave.As one by one we lay them down, These years that come and go,The sunshine gilds a few, but more Are cold with falling snow.
And some are dark with heavy clouds, Or sadly falling rain,That patters drearily upon Life's misty window-pane.Yet sages tell us life is only What we mortals make it;That time is like a looking-glass,— Reflecting till we break it.The images we see within— Let them be foul or fair—Are our own deeds, both good and ill, As plainly mirrored there.
We write the judgments on ourselves, Frail mortals though we be;Time takes the written scroll into The vast eternity.
