Sonnet Xxxi. Life And Death. 3.

IF death be final, what is life, with all Its lavish promises, its thwarted aims, Its lost ideals, its dishonored claims, Its uncompleted growth? A prison wall, Whose heartless stones but echo back our call; An epitaph recording but our names; A puppet-stage where joys and griefs and shames Furnish a demon jester's carnival; A plan without a purpose or a form; A footless temple; an unfinished tale. And men like madrepores through calm and storm Toil, die to build a branch of fossil frail, And add from all their dreams, thoughts, acts, belief, A few more inches to a coral-reef.