Cattle crop and neat-herds drowse
On the floors of Cæsar’s house.”
“But what has become of Cæsar’s gold,
Brother, big brother?”
“The times are bad and the world is old—
Who knows the where of the Cæsar’s gold?
Night comes black o’er the Cæsar’s hill;
The wells are deep and the tales are ill;
Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold—
All that is left of the Cæsar’s gold.