Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (1810–1888)

UPON an everlasting tide

Into the silent seas we go;

But verdure laughs along the side,

And on the margin roses blow.

Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold

Rate thou above their natural height:

Yet learn that all our eyes behold

Has value, if we mete it right.

Pluck then the flowers that line the stream,

Instead of fighting with its power:

But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem

That they will bloom beyond their hour.

Whate’er betides, from day to day

An even pulse and spirit keep;

And like a child worn out with play,

When wearied with existence, sleep.