Youth

His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird,

Swift on the weary road his footfall comes;

The dusty air that by his stride is stirred

Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums.

“Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break;

To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!”

Yet long ago that merry march began,

His feet are older than the path they tread;

His music is the morning-song of man,

His stride the stride of all the valiant dead;

His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes

Deep with the old, old dream that never dies.