(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in
one of his letters)
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._