Year after year I see thee pass me by;
In vain I stretch my eager hand to stay
Awhile thy progress royal that I may
View the full splendour of thy pageantry.
It may not be: thy pace is swift, and I,
Waking from wonder at one magic spray,
Mayhap of thy fair roses, find the way
Bestrid by Autumn in full panoply.
Year after year still will thy banners wave;
Soon like a wistful urchin must I go,
Chid by my Master from the passing show.
And though thy lavish hand shall strew my grave,
Naught of its meaning wilt thou ever know,
Nor from thy thronged waysides miss one slave.