My father got me strong and straight and slim,
And I give thanks to him;
My mother bore me glad and sound and sweet,-
I kiss her feet.

But now, with me, their generation fails,
And nevermore avails
To cast through me the ancient mould again,
Such women and men.

I have no son, whose life of flesh and fire
Sprang from my splendid sire,
No daughter for whose soul my mother's flesh
Wrought raiment fresh.

Life's venerable rhythms like a flood
Beat in my brain and blood,
Crying from all the generations past,
“Is this the last?”

And I make answer to my haughty dead,
Who made me, heart and head,
“Even the sunbeams falter, flicker and bend-
I am the end.”