Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.

The grave is Heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait; O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold! - William Blake,

I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.

ROSALIND
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 

A couple who travel together, grow together.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.