That Man and his frail works shall like the grass
So perish and decay. Moves he vain lord
And monarch of a mighty throng, to-day;
Flit by a few short summers, hies he back
Unto his primal clod, leaving no track
Behind. His storms—tell, where now are they?
Search for them in the herbage fresh and green,
Or find them in the flowers in humble valley seen.