And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick