Though to-day may groan ’neath its weight of care,
and the sun be a raven’s wing
That darkens the faces of children fair
and saddens the songs they sing;
I know it will change at the faintest touch
from the hand of a God-sent Spring!
And I know, though the desert be grim and grey,
and its life be a Lethe’s pond
Whose waters of indolence hold alway
the spirits of men in bond,
Full well there is room for a strenuous life
in the Land that is Just Beyond.
Thus we wait for the touch of a magic string
and a glance of a love-lit eye:
For a breath from some spirit awakening
that passes us clearly by:
—We legion of dreamers that drift and live,
and dabble and drink—and die.