And the end of it all was a hole in the ground
And a scratch on a crumbling stone.
There was a man that dreamed a dream,
And his pen it served his brain;
And great was his art and great his theme
And long was his laurelled reign;
But after awhile the world forgot
And his work was pushed aside,
(For to serve and wait is the mortal lot)
And then, in the end, he died.