A Jester, a winner of empty laughter,
Grew sick of life, and the life hereafter, 
Of sea, and sky, and the seasons four. 
"I will die," he said, "as my mirth is dying, 
Lie down as the fallen tree is lying 
On Earth's brown bosom, and hear no more 
The madman's laughter, the sage's sighing." 

The Jester went when his mood was sorest 
Into the heart of the autumn forest; 
Round him and past him in nerveless haste 
The dead leaves whirled in a helpless eddy. 
"Here," said the Jester, "the year makes ready 
To die as gladly as I, to waste 
Like wine that's spilled from a cup unsteady." 

He lay in the leaves, and a sound of laughter 
Rang through the forest: before him, after, 
Around, above him the laughter swept. 
A girl came berrying down the hedges — 
The wind dropped dead at the forest edges 
As a bird from the stone that a slinger fledges. 
The woman came, and the man that slept 
In the Jester out of the dead leaves leapt; 
He caught her hands, and her heart he kept. 

And what is Life?— An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length?— A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?— A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to naught.

What are vain Hopes?— The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem—and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O Trouble?— nothing can suppose
(And sure the power of wisdom only knows)
What need requireth thee:
So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be.
But disappointments, pains, and every woe
Devoted wretches feel,
The universal plagues of life below,
Are mysteries still 'neath Fate's unbroken seal.

And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?
That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—
A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.
And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—
Nowhere at all, save heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life?— When stripp'd of its disguise,
A thing to be desir'd it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo;
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.