what blooms so fair at daybreak, by noon is trampled low;
what bravely struts and strives soon turns to ash and bone;
no substance lasts forever, no brass, no polished stone.
one moment fortune smiles, the next brings bitter woe.

oh think, what are those objects we prize beyond compare,
mere shadows, dust, and wind - all worthless, false and vain;
field flowers glimpsed in passing and never seen again!
for that which is immortal, no man seems to care.

andreas gryphius, vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas, 1637