Rave, ye furious lovers,—a stain of crimson rust;
Growing, growing, all the glory going.
Pictures, poems, music—their essential soul,
Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl;
Growing, growing, all the glory going.
London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth,
Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith;
Growing, growing, all the glory going.
Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun,
In a crushing silence the All is dead and done.