Destiny.
From The French Of Louis Veuillot.
It is the lot of mortals here below
That they shall ever crawl from bad to worse,
Approaching step by step the dismal tomb—
Instance an aching tooth, with no relief
Save by its loss. Cure comes by sacrifice.
All victories are seeds of further strife—
Of strife that never ends but in the grave,
In which he only conquers who succumbs:
And this is destiny.
Ye dreamers of love-dreams, of glory, wealth,
Who, growing old, are scouted by the world,
And then swept on into forgetfulness!
All disappears—laurels, affection, gold!
Blame not your faults that so things come to pass,
For this is destiny.