Classic Poem

All , all is but a passing show;
There's nothing real here:
Strange phantoms, flitting to and fro,
Just wake a smile, or tear.

A vapor driven by a breath,
A meteor's transient gleam,
A twice-told tale that ends in death,
A short and troubled dream, —

Such is this changing, fev'rish life,
And thus we hurry on,
All eager in the scene of strife,
Till time and life are done.

But that which eye hath never seen,
Nor ear hath ever heard, —
These are the real joys, that lean
On God's unfailing word.