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.