The clock of life is wound but once,

And no man has the power

To tell just where the hands will stop --

At late or early hour.

To lose one's wealth is sad indeed,

To lose one's health is more,

To lose one's soul is such a loss

As no man can restore.

The present only is our own:

Live, love, toil with a will.

Place no faith in tomorrow,

For the clock may then be still!