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.