Lo, what is Man! and what has he right to inherit?
What is the thing that his wretchedness claims as its own?
This, this only is man; the years press down on his spirit
Always in saddest condition to utter his final groan.
It is man’s lot to have nothing—in nakedness coming; and going
Back to his mother’s breast to bear her no riches again.
It is man’s lot to decay, his dust on the desert bestowing,
And by sad steps to climb to the pyre of his pain.
Such is his heirship of good, and here upon earth he may gather
Nothing more certain than these, the spoils of a vanishing fate.