Turning my chariot I yoke my horses and go. On and on down the long roads The autumn winds shake the hundred grasses. On every side, how desolate and bare! The things I meet are all new things, Their strangeness hastens the coming of old age. Prosperity and decay each have their season. Success is bitter when it is slow in coming. Man’s life is not metal or stone, He cannot far prolong the days of his fate. Suddenly he follows in the way of things that change. Fame is the only treasure that endures.