The world is dying, its heart is cold,
And well-nigh frozen dead,--
A sorrowful thing it is to grow old,
With all the feelings fled,--
Dull are its eyes, and dismal its voice,
And a mourner's cloak it wears,
For all have forgotten to love or rejoice,--
Nobody feels or cares.

Time was, when zeal and honour and joy,
And charities cheering life,
Mix'd grains of gold with the mass of alloy,
And starr'd this night of strife;
But now, it is all for a man's own self,
And not how his neighbour fares;
Except for pleasure, and pride, and pelf,
Nobody feels or cares.

Be wise, or a fool,-- be good or be bad,
To others it's much the same;
They heed not a whit if you're merry or sad,
Or worthy of praise or blame;
The world is reaping its broadcast seed
Of briers and thorns and tares,
And the only word in which all are agreed
Is -- Nobody feels or cares!