The spindle, of our time, weaves uncertain;
A coil of opaque and wistful lies,
Which the shallow plays, behind the curtain,
Seek out the acts by which the pureness dies.
We are the production of passing days,
And rehearsals of the madness we keep
Within darkness as countenance from rays
Of light, faded by ways from which we reap
The reward of shortcoming and death,
Which so have past now to a haunted stage.
It is from a spindle our last breath
Will be wrought, and what difference if in rage?
For will time direct the vision of life,
Yet may the coil end, so without strife?

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