Like to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,

Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

Or bubbles which on water stood:

Even such is a man, whose borrowed light

Is straight called in, and paid tonight.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies;

The spring entombed in autumn lies;

The dew dries up, the star is shot;

The flight is past: and man forgot.

Henry King

1592-1669, b. England

The weather, Chanyeol decides, seemed to be mocking him. He gripped the cream envelope in his freezing hands harder, pulling his coat tighter around himself. Around him the snow fell lightly, serenely, and the sun shone gently. It was a beautiful day. Too beautiful a day to find out he wouldn't have more than three hundred and sixty-five more, in fact, that he almost dismissed this day as a simple dream. He pulled himself from his thoughts as he stepped to the side slightly, realising that he was blocking the entrance of the hospital just standing there judging the cruel weather.

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