Whate'er their miracles, sublime or tender,
Will wake no joy in me.
There'll come a day when all the aspiration,
Now with such fervor fraught,
As lifts to heights of breathless exaltation,
Will seem a thing of naught.
There'll come a day when riches, honor, glory,
Music and song and art,
Will look like puppets in a wornout story,
Where each has played his part.