Slowly we learn; the oft repeated line
Lingers a little moment and is gone;
Nation on Nation follows, Sun on Sun;

But we are blind and see not. In our pride
We strain toward the petrifying mound
To sit above our fellows, and we ride
The slow and luckless toiler to the ground.

Fools are we for our pains! Whom we despise,
Last come, shall mount our withered vanities,
Topmost to sit upon the vast decay
Of time and temporal things; for, last or first,
The proud array of pictured bubbles burst;
Mirages of their glory pass away.