We are but shadows, and we pass
Like sunshine on the waving grass;
Shadows that live a little time,
As summer lives and breathes her prime.
We go; but she—she never grieves,
But forms her birth of infant leaves
For the next season, and they blow
Full, as a thousand years ago
They grew, and spread to winds unseen
Their paradise of dewy green.
So be it. In their high estate
The gods that rule our human fate
Have fixed it; and their high stern doom
Is, that our race must have a tomb.
Ah, who so bold of heart can say
The high gods shall not have their sway.
We fight in vain; our paltry life
Sinks like a bubble in the strife.
But all the seasons still renew
The colour which they hold their due.
But man. He only lives to pass
Like floating shadows on the grass.
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