PROLOGUE
WHAT loveliness the years contrive To rob us of! what exquisite Beliefs, in which thought chanced to hit On truths that with the world survive! Dream-truths, that still attend their flocks On the high hills of heart and mind, Peopling the streams, the woods and rocks With Beauty running like the wind.
They are not dead; but year by year Still hold us through the inner eye Of thought, and so can never die As long as there's one heart to hear Nature addressing words of love,— (As once she spoke to Rome and Greece,)— Unto the soul, whose faith shall prove The dream will last though all else cease.