THE PASSIG YEARS
BY JAMES HERY POTTS
How strange is life! Each lives his own.Into its mystic depths are thrownThe joys and griefs, the hopes and fears,The cares and toils of passing years.What, then, am I? And what art thou?What are these moments we call ow?What is our consciousness? and whoCan sound his own existence through?What is this life account we take?How differ dreams from thoughts awake?What is a thought? Is inner factLess verity than outward act?What is experience? Is mineIn character the same as thine?Do what we know and see and feel,On each the same emotions seal?How is thy mind impressed by pain?Canst thou the dread of death disdain?Does each love life with equal zest?Is each alike by kindness blest?What are these years which pass for all?What are these states which from them fall-Maturity, old age, alarm.Regret, remorse, or peaceful charm?These passing years no fiat halts.