Two terrors fright my soul by night and day:

The first is Life, and with her come the years;

A weary, winding train of maidens they,

With forward-fronting eyes, too sad for tears;

Upon whose kindred faces, blank and grey,

The shadow of a kindred woe appears.

Death is the second terror; who shall say

What form beneath the shrouding mantle nears?

Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief,

My smitten soul may not be comforted;

Alternately she swings from grief to grief,

And, poised between them, sways from dread to dread.

For there she dreads because she knows; and here,

Because she knows not, only faints with fear.