Standing upon this grave, I view The world with my anointed eyes.They pass along, a motley crew, The people, with their works and cries.
Through many a mazy path they run, -- They join, they cross, they part, they meet;But all their ways converge to one, That ends beneath my very feet.
The weariest straggler here shall rest, The fiercest cry here gasp for breath;The bondman with his lord may jest In this old commonwealth of death.
So high my dizzy stand is fixed, I cannot judge men's deeds aright;They seem in vain confusion mixed, Mere motion, indistinct to sight.
For if yon emmet hoards or upends, Or this one means to buy or sell,Or what that other's act intends, Is more than I can truly tell.
Or if that be a sad parade Of mourners following the dead,Or warriors, armed with spear and blade. -- Yon pygmies winding down a thread.
But this I know: a million strands, Converging to this central place,Some spider wove, and all the bands Climb here, with pallor in the face.
Each by his separate thread ascends, As partial fortune may allot;But each, with empty bands, here ends. And in his season is forgot.
