If on the great world's wide and shifting sand
I scrawl my meagre alphabet of song,
What profit have I, think you? Not for long,
The pride of its enduring. Time's rough hand
Sweeps all of shadowy fabric from the strand.
So children work upon the tideless shore,
So poets build their pomp. The fresh tides roar,
And desolate the glory each had planned.
Then whereof comes requital? Here and there
Our life's horizon clouds with new regrets;
Our palaces dissolve in thinnest air,
Shiver to dust our loftiest minarets.
Yet, childlike, work we ever on the shore, —
Reap joy in building, and expect no more!
