When the roses of the summer burn to ashes in the sun,
When the feast of love is finished, and the heart is overrun;
When the hungry soul is sated and the tongue at last denies
Expression to the wonders that are wearing out the eyes,
Then the splendor it will wane like a dream that haunts the brain,
Or the swift dissolving beauty of the bow above the rain;
And the summer domes of pleasure that bubble up the sky
Will tumble into legends in the twinkling of an eye;
But the art of man endureth, and the heart of man will glow
With reanimated ardor as the ages come and go.
The pageants of the present are but pledges of a time
When strifes shall be forgotten in a cycle more sublime
When the fancies of the future into golden wreaths are curled
O'er the dim, remembered city of the workers of the world.
_CHAPTER VIII_