And there he, on the the stark, dark marker
Atop his parents’ graves, shed tears,
And praised their ashes – darker, starker.
Alas, life reaps too fast its years;
All flesh is grass. Each generation,
At heaven’s hidden motivation,
Arises, blooms, and falls from grace;
Another quickly takes its place.
And thus our race, rash and impetuous,
Ascends and has its day, then raves
And hastens toward ancestral graves.
All too soon, death’s sting will get to us;
Aye, how our children’s children rush
And push us from this world’s sweet crush.

And then with verse of quickened sadness
He honored too, in tears and pain,
His parents’ dust... their memory’s gladness...
Alas! Upon life’s furrowed plain --
A harvest brief, each generation,
By fate’s mysterious dispensation,
Arises, ripens, and must fall;
Then others too must heed the call.
For thus our giddy race gains power:
It waxes, stirs, turns seething wave,
Then crowds its forebears toward the grave.
And we as well shall face that hour
When one fine day our grandsons true
Straight out of life will crowd us too!