The days are few, the world is wide;
The skies are fair—but fickle;
Time stalks a-field, Death, at his side,
Gleans with remorseless sickle.

Spring hastes to Summer—Summer pales;
The Autumn's painted glory
Flies with the Winter's shuddering gales;
So runs the endless story.

Why do we strive for hopes—to be
Their kings—that we may kill them?
When all the goals are graves, and we
The drifting fools that fill them?

Why do we preach and lie and pray
And fast and hate each other;
And weep and fight—to reach the clay,
And make the worm our brother?