At last in my dream, a mist came over the Hill, and all the figures got
fainter and fainter, and seemed to be fading away. But as they faded, I
could see one great figure coming out clearer through the mist, which
I had never noticed before. It was like a grand old man, with white
hair and mighty limbs, who looked as old as the hill itself, but yet
as if he were as young now as he ever had been; and at his feet were a
pickaxe and spade, and at his side a scythe. But great and solemn as it
looked, I felt that the figure was not a man, and I was angry with it.
Why should it come in with its great pitiful eyes and smile? Why were
my brothers and sisters, the men and women, to fade away before it?
“The labor that a man doeth under the sun, it is all vanity. Prince and
peasant, the wise man and the fool they all come to me at last and I
garner them away, and their place knows them no more!” So the figure
seemed to say to itself, and I felt melancholy as I watched it sitting
there at rest, playing with the fading figures.
At last it placed one of the little figures on its knee, half in
mockery, as it seemed to me, and half in sorrow. But then all changed;
and the great figure began to fade, and the small man came out clearer
and clearer. And he took no heed of his great neighbor, but rested
there where he was placed; and his face was quiet, and full of life as
he gazed steadily and earnestly through the mist. And the other figures
came flitting by again and chanted as they passed, “The work of one
true man is greater than all thy work. Thou hast nought but a seeming
power over it, or over him. Every true man is greater than thee. Every
true man shall conquer more than thee; for he shall triumph over death,
and hell, and thee, oh, Time!”