Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls!
Thy moving forces, which we call the living,
Bustling and battling through their little day,
Are nought to thy great prostrate army, giving
Their flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay.
And what is that which life thy children call?
A little round of idle hopes and fears,
A dream prefig’ring being, this is all,
Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears.
The countless millions all around us lying