Quickly they vanish to a land unlit,
Things for which no man cares to smile or mourn,
Forgotten in the place where they were born;
Each hath a marvellous history unwrit,
A fathomless river floweth over it.
Quickly they fade, with no more traces worn
Than shadows flying over fields of corn
Wear, as in soft processional they flit.
The thought (much like the children of our youth)
Doth often die before us, and presents,
With tints much faded and with lines effaced,
The very semblance of the monuments
To which we are approaching still in sooth,
Although the brass and marble do not waste.
(Archbishop William Alexander)
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