The Garden of Proserpine - A. C. Swinburne, 1866 We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no man lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light; Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight; Nor wintry nor vernal, Nor days, nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. full poem here