Life

Life to most is but a tangle
   Woven to a web;
Music made of endless jangle
   From which no love doth ebb.

Each day's monotony and pain
   Glides rapidly away,
To swell the ever-rolling main
   Of long eternity.

And so each day moves slowly past,
   And ne’er returns again;
But memory cannot be erased
   Of sufferings past and gain.

Then let us fill each passing day
   With little deeds of love;
Then, when we too shall pass away,
   'Twill be to realms above.

M. M., Maghera.

Poem: The Witness, 12th July 1917.
Image: Spider Web in Spring, a painting by Jessica Meredith.