That swell a deathward torrent, or as grains
Of sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,
And he that is fore’er undoes the work
Of him that has been, through the whirl of time.
What profits it to weave a golden web
Which all our heirs may rend above our grave!
To pile our treasuries with yellow dust
That every reckless future wind may blow!
To think to be unthought in coming years!
To write to be the jest of fresher times!