All That’s Past

Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier's boughs
When March winds wake
So old with their beauty are--
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon

Very old are we men;
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve's nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile
But, the day gone by
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie