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.