The Clock of Life

The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop,
At late or early hour.  

To loose one's wealth is sad indeed
To loose one's health is more,
To loose one's soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.

The present only is our own;
Live, love, toil with a will,
Place no faith in tomorrow, for
The hands may then be still.