That holds its little hour of sway
Is only worth its destined time—
What use to try to make it stay?
Aye, let it go. The monarch dead,
A better king our shouts may hail
And if a worse—well, still be glad;
He too will pass behind the vail.
They all must pass—fame, joy and love,
The sting of grief, the blot of shame;
The only thing that really counts