1. I play, yet our days pass away,
And death plays not.

2. Strange that one plays who is destined to die;
Strange that I play not, who nothing surprises.

3. He plays who looks todie and whose home decays,
We see constantly all that saddens us prevail

4. Over all that gladdens us.
We see the generations in the shrouds of annihilation

5. Whenever they ascend they descend.
You see the night seeking us and the day,

6. But we know not which of the two is the seeker.
The new moons encompass us, gathering,

7. So we have no escape from them.
Everything has an allotted span,

8. Everything has a record written.
How long will you contend against hoary decrepitude,

9. O you who play, aged with grey hairs?
Events continue to run with you

10. Till you are delivered or overthrown.
You will be given and stripped till your soul

11. Is the last thing they strip from you.