Henry King

Here you will find the Poem My Midnight Meditation of poet Henry King

My Midnight Meditation

Ill busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care 
To lengthen out thy life's short calendar? 
When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon 
Presents and acts thy execution. 
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, 
'Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die. 

'The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) 
Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell: 
Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy 
Covers alike deceased day and thee. 
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall, 
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.'