Of all that started with us, hand in hand,
Only a few are left, a dwindling band.
With haggard faces fixed upon the goal,
E’en as the needle to the steadfast pole,
Swifter and swifter, till the evening air
Sings like a serpent through our back-blown hair.
But lo, the night has come,
The sun goes down,
His trailing robes with crimson glories crown
The palace we had almost deemed was ours.