Leaping to journeys, always set In thoughts traveling on a quickening tide. In his murmuring voice, and our hearts mourn As he urges. The wealth Of the world neither reaches to Heaven nor remains. Those powers have vanished, those pleasures are dead. The weakest survives and the world continues, Kept spinning by toil.
All glory is tarnished.
The world's honor ages and shrinks, Bent like the men who mold it. Their faces Blanch as time advances, their beards Wither and they mourn the memory of friends. The sons of princes, sown in the dust. Bends neither its hand nor its brain. A brother Opens his palms and pours down gold On his kinsman's grave, strewing his coffin With treasures intended for Heaven, but nothing Golden shakes the wrath of God For a soul overflowing with sin, and nothing Hidden on earth rises to Heaven.