Live thou each day as though it were the last,

Since every single day that comes and goes

Is but a beautiful ascetic rose

Born bravely twixt the future and the past,

Dim desert stretches, solitary, vast,

Unknown, forgotten, huge with dark repose;

For thee today has blossomed, and—who knows?

Thou mayst tomorrow in deep earth be cast.

Each moment is a burning-point between

Two long eternities, two mournful greys,

Two terrible solitudes of the Unseen

That broods amidst the passing of our days,

Between the still to be and what has been,

Blind travellers, we go our separate ways.