Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,