Sylvie and Bruno

    • Is all our Life, then but a dream
    • Seen faintly in the golden gleam
    • Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?
    • Bowed to the earth with bitter woe
    • Or laughing at some raree-show
    • We flutter idly to and fro.
    • Man’s little Day in haste we spend,
    • And, from its merry noontide, send
    • No glance to meet the silent end.