The Clock Of Life

The clock of life is wound but once

And no man has the power to tell

Just when the hand will stop

At late or early hour.

To lose one’s wealth is sad indeed,

To lose one’s health is more,

To lose one’s soul is such a loss,

As no man can restore.

The present only is our own

We shall live and toil with a will

And place no faith in tomorrow,

For the clock may then be still.