  A little time they lived again, and lo! Back to the quiet night the shadows go, And the great folds of silence once again Are over fools and kings and fighting-men. A little while they went with stumbling feet, With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet, With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills, And now their dust is on a thousand hills. We dream of them, as men unborn shall dream Of us, who strive a little with the stream Before we too go out beyond the day, And are as much a memory as they. And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thing Of any fear, nor terrible his wing. We too shall be a tale on earth, and time Shall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme. |
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