Poem from Thomas’s Birthday

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares; 

And all my good is but vain hope of gain:

The day is past, and yet I saw no sun;

And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told;   

My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green;

My youth is spent, and yet I am not old;     

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;     

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;

I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;     

And now I die, and now I was but made;

My glass is full, and now my glass is run;

And now I live, and now my life is done.