Are the deeds of a man in his prime

You shuffle in gloom of the sickroom
And talk to yourself as you die


Life is a short, warm moment
And death is a long cold rest
You get your chance to try in the twinkling of an eye:
Eighty years, with luck, or even less

Just Think!
Some night the stars will gleam.
Upon a cold grey stone.
And trace a name with silver beam.
And lo'! Twill be your own!
That night is speeding down,
To greet your epitaphic rhyme.
Your life is but a little beat,
within the heart of time.
A little gain, a little pain,
a laugh lest you moan.
A little blame, a little fame.
A star gleam on a stone.

Robert W. Service
The Poet Laureate of the Yukon.

One, Two, Free, Four.