We are all of us dreamers of dreams, On visions our childhood is fed; And the heart of the child is unhaunted, it seems, By the ghosts of dreams that are dead. From childhood to youth's but a span, And the years of our life are soon sped; But the youth is no longer a youth, but a man, When the first of his dreams is dead. 'Tis as a cup of wormwood and gall, When the doom of a great dream is said; And the best of a man is under the pall, When the best of his dreams is dead. He may live on by compact and plan, When the fine bloom of living is shed; But God pity the little that's left of a man When the last of his dreams is dead. Let him show a brave face if he can, Let him woo fame or fortune instead; Yet there's not much to do but to bury a man, When the last of his dreams is dead. |