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Some say we came God's purpose to fulfil—
'Faith a poor purpose then, if so you will;
Sport for the heavenly huntsmen, others say,—
Sorry the sport, methinks, and poor the skill.
What purpose think you has the Saki there,
Pouring those shining motes of wine and air?
A bubble's life—can it be nought to him?
A million bubbles—he must surely care!
Passionate particles of dust and sun,
Run your brief race, nor ask why it is run—
We are but shadow-pictures, voices, dreams;
Perchance they make and break us—just for fun.
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