All alike are withered and cast away.
Vain will seem the impatient heart which waited,
Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
And the childish joy, so soon elated
At the path we thought none else had found;
And the foolish ardor soon abated
By the storm which cast us to the ground.
Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
As our final home and resting-place;
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming