We are pursued by Fate; nothing on earth
Flowers into satisfaction; on the skirt
Of all temptation, hidden yet alert,
Hangs disappointment ready to spring forth
And jar with discord the clear song of mirth;
Even our best pleasure has the sting of hurt,
And prayers and tears are futile to avert
The Nemesis that haunts us from our birth.
Oh! what avail our struggles, who are caught
In Fate's inextricable web! In vain
Through the dark future our exhausted thought
Seeks for a resting-place secure from pain;
Our Present crumbles 'neath us while we laugh,
Our Past has but a sigh for epitaph.