And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not.
We have our spring-time and our rottenness;
And as we fall, another race succeeds,
To perish likewise. Meanwhile nature smiles—
The seasons run their round—the sun fulfils
His annual course—and heaven and earth remain
Still changing, yet unchang’d—still doomed to feel
Endless mutation in perpetual rest.
H. K. White.
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,