The Fate Of All Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

They'll bring when we are dead, perchance,
Some flowers from their garden, friend;
And place them where Time's cruel lance
Has marked for us, for all, the end.


They'll drop upon our bier a tear,
And close for us our eyes; and then
They will leave us forgotten here,
Till time has run its course with men.


If thought of us survives a day,
A month, a year or century,
Still we shall be forgot for aye;
For time consumes all memory.


If Love should rear her shaft of stone,
To mark our little mound of dust,
The granitic fate too well is known -
It shall decay to mould with us.


A few brief years may yet remain
To us on this delightful shore,
Then in the silent land's domain
We shall rest in peace forevermore.


The generations yet to come,
Creation's vast immensity,
Shall find with us a common home,
For commonage's our destiny.


The vast expanse of all the deep
Shall one day pause and cease to roll;
The liquid grave where millions sleep
Shall itself give up its soul.


When oblivion reigns supreme,
Down the endless aisles of chaos,
All things become alike gangrene,
In the land where spirit leaves us.