A liberal worldling, gay philosopher,
Art thou that liftst thy young and yellow head
Over the dim burial of the scarce-cold dead,
Building above thy brother's sepulchre
A home of love that sense might almost err,
Deeming thy end therein to woo and wed
The flower-haired earth for ever. Yet the red
In yonder west may well such dreams deter!

Yes, thou, all-hailed To-day! whose outstretched hand
Scatters loose riches on a bankrupt land,
Even thou art but a leaf from off the tree
Of yellowing time; a grain of glistening sand
Dashed from the waters of that unsailed sea
Where thou to-night shalt sink, and I as soon may be.