Letra de 'Hourglass For Diana' de Current 93

My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe
See how they presse, se how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen
But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more
Just such is man whose houres still forward run
Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our feares! they blast us still
Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see
Like Children crying for some Mercurie
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold'
And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay than theY
Poore man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour
A ship of Glasse, toss'd in a Sea of terrour
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe
Crauling in tears and mourning to the tombe
How slippery are thy paths, hose sure thy fall
How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!