The world’s a screen. Across it flit the shadows
Of all the multitudes that come and go.
They move in dusty lanes, o’er sunny meadows,
And where the hand of toil moves to and fro.
There is the mourner and the long procession;
There is the maid with joy of which to sing;
There is the warrior, with his blood-possession;
There is the shade of some forgotten king.
Soon is each gone. Soon yonder in the distance
Each comes amid the mists to disappear,
Where dying light falls on his face or glistens
For one brief moment on his helm or spear.
Yet as each goes another is approaching.
A multitude is shadowed on ahead;
So moves the line, forevermore encroaching
Upon the borders of the silent dead.
Thus goes the drama, each his fond part playing,
For what he plays to him is all in all--
Striving, pursuing, loving, toiling, praying,
Until the darkness overshadows all.