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70 And Youth, a white moth fluttering, Blows with the wind away; And walls and towers made of hands, And faith, and roundelay, And laughter, and red fallow lands, Pass like the withered spray.

And certitude grows rank with ease, And idols turn to mold, And passion's cup holds bitter lees, And pale, soft hands grow cold; All shimmering reality, The world that shines and seems, The earth, the mountains and the sea, Are shadows of old dreams.

Yet when the splendor of the earth Is fallen into dust, When plow and sword and fame and worth Are rotted with black rust, The Dream, still deathless, still unborn, Blows in the hearts of men, The star, the mystery, the morn, Bloom agelessly again.