(不援引爱德华•菲茨杰拉德of his letters) I Growing, growing, all the glory going; Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk, All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk-- _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root, Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ Plot, ye subtle statesmen,--a trace of melted wax; Bind, ye haughty prelates,--a thread of ravelled flax; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ March, ye mighty captains,--an eddy in the dust; Rave, ye furious lovers,--a stain of crimson rust; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ Pictures, poems, music--their essential soul, Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth, Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun, In a crushing silence the All is dead and done. _Growing, growing, all the glory going._ II Going, going, all the glory growing, See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark! Singing in the caverns of the primal dark. _Going, going, all the glory growing._ What is in the making, what immortal plan Draws to its unfolding? 'Tis the Soul of man. _Going, going, all the glory growing._ See it mount and hover, singing as it goes, Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes; _Going, going, all the glory growing._ The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes, Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise; _Going, going, all the glory growing._ The supernal morning on its dewy wings, Soaring and scorning the lust of earthy things; _Going, going, all the glory growing._ The beatific noontide on its eager breast Springing and singing to its halcyon rest; _Going, going, all the glory growing._ In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod, Winging still and singing to the heart of God. _Going, going, all the glory growing._