There is a fear among us as we strive,
As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel,
That there will be no pleasure left alive
When we in peace and joy at last arrive
At one dead level.
And still the strangest part of this strange fear
Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it.
We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead
To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead;
We wish that peace, but wish no other near it!