Dust

Man is a breath—a blowing on the glass— A vapor visioned for a little while— A drifting droplet among clouds that pass. . . . The room is empty that once knew his smile. All the stark beauty that his eyes drank in On land and sea, where sail the proud white ships, And all the hours of triumph and of sin— A wanton’s kisses trembling on his lips— All that he was, all that he hoped to be, And all the glories that he took on trust, Are broken fragments in some memory, And he himself a bit of trampled dust. The brain that plotted, and the hand that wrought, Food for wild thistles—somewhat less than nought.