Arthur Henry Adams
All things must fade. There is for cities tall
The same tomorrow as for daffodils:
Time's wind, that casts the seed, the petal spills.
Grim London's ruined arches yet shall fall
Back to the arms of Earth. A quiet pall
The mother draws over those she loves--and kills;
And though brief nations vaunt their upstart wills,
The nemesis of grass shall cover all.
So--from a caravan to Mecca bound