THE OLD GODS

Old gods are dead; their broken shrines are lying

Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground;

I see lost beauty with each sunset dying,

I hear lost music in each echoing sound.

Old gods are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer

Beside old altars where our offerings lay,—

False gods perhaps,— but what have you to offer

Who batter down old temples in a day?

Old gods are dead; but still the sunset lingers,

The moonlight still its store of treasure yields,

Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers,

And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields,

The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above,

And human hearts still long for human love.