Thus pass the glories of the world!
He lies beneath the pall’s white folds:
His sword is sheathed, his pennon furled,
Him silence holds.
The pilgrim staff, the cockle shell,
The crown, the sceptre of his pride,
The simple flower from forest dell,
Heap at his side.
And add thereto the wild-heart lute
The voice of love and twilight song;
Those passioned strings though he is mute
And move not thence his evening book,
The sifted grains of calm and storm;
And bow before that dust-strewn nook
And silent form.
To-morrow hath no hope for him,
No clasp of friend, no grip of foe:
Remember, love, with eyes tear-dim,
We too must go.
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