Look gaily on your waking life, my friend,
and let it be a source of thankfulness
for all too soon it rushes to its end
when most will forage, only few shall bless
and, like a train on short and narrow track,
it must go all the way and not come back.

I know a lady, fifty years my elder;
half a century more worn with care,
and it's an age since Love's redemption held her,
still longer since it told her she was fair.
All that's long gone and eyes now comprehend
a tunnel with no daylight and no end.

Of such a destiny she'll make no fuss
if you or I donate a little price;
a thousand times the better 'tis for us,
yea, even though we pay the same fare twice:
an off'ring which from children may be heard:
I don't mean money, just the odd kind word.

Those sightless eyes will soon be closed for good,
her curtain-shading shadow will be gone.
I'd keep her here for ever if I could,
but I'm no god. I too must leave anon,
and when I do, this platform shall contain
not even the remembrance of her train.

If Granny heard me, she would call me daft
for thinking so importantly on this
and, true enough, for all my thought and craft,
how can I say she'll not inherit Bliss?
I can't bemoan the station she'll achieve.
She'll win, maybe, that Love I can't conceive.

But now the steam puffs higher from the funnel,
the wheels for motion strain against the track
and over there's the entrance to the tunnel.
Perhaps the other end will look less black.
If there her soul cries, "Paradise ahoy!"
I hope I'll hear some echo of her joy.