English poem
Epigrams, CXXII (Ah, woe is his, with length…)
by Ambrose Bierce (1842–1914)
Ah, woe is his, with length of living cursed, Who, nearing second childhood, had no first. Behind, no glimmer, and before no ray— A night at either end of his dark day.
More by Ambrose Bierce
- Epigrams, CLXXXVII (The man of “honor” pays his…)
- Epigrams, CXIV (What poignant memories the shadows bring)
- Epigrams, CXLV (On fair foundations Theocrats unwise)
- Epigrams, CXVIII (“My laws,” she said, “are of…)
- Epigrams, CXXXII (Do you to others as you…)
- Epigrams, LIII (“There’s no free will,” says the…)
- Epigrams, LXXX (Artistically set to grace)
- Epigrams, X (A little heap of dust)