In garden plots the children play,
    The fields the labourers till,
And houses stand on either hand,
    And thou descendest still.

O life descending into death,
    Our waking eyes behold,
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
    Companions young and old.

Strong purposes our mind possess,
    Our hearts affections fill,
We toil and earn, we seek and learn,
    And thou descendest still.

O end to which our currents tend,
    Inevitable sea,
To which we flow, what do we know,
    What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore,
    As we our course fulfil;
Scarce we divine a sun will shine
    And be above us still.