Each destined to stand in another's shoes
To whose heels we may come the nighest;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this—in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.
We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;