Chapter I

Growing, growing, all the glory going; Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk, All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk-- _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root, Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Plot, ye subtle statesmen,--a trace of melted wax; Bind, ye haughty prelates,--a thread of ravelled flax; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

March, ye mighty captains,--an eddy in the dust; Rave, ye furious lovers,--a stain of crimson rust; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Pictures, poems, music--their essential soul, Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth, Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun, In a crushing silence the All is dead and done. _Growing, growing, all the glory going._