All the world is a passing thing, more fleeting than the rain,
The sun rides up, the sun rides down, another day to gain,
And when the summer first has come, in shades and scents of June,
At once the year is riding down, unto a winter moon,
The friend of morn is a foe of eve, the waters wax and wane,
For naught can last beneath the stars, except the fleeting rain.
