For Each Age Is A Dream That

We Are The Music Makers, And We Are The Dreamers Of Dreams.

We Are The Music-makers, And We Are The Dreamers Of Dreams, Wandering By Lone Sea-breakers, And Sitting By Desolate Streams. World-losers And World-forsakers, Upon Whom The Pale Moon Gleams; Yet We Are The Movers And Shakers, Of The World Forever, It Seems.

O Precious Is The Pause Between The Winds That Come And Go, / And Sweet The Silence Of The Shores Between The Ebb And Flow.

We, In The Ages Lying In The Buried Past Of The Earth, Built Nineveh With Our Sighing, And Babel Itself With Our Mirth; And O'erthrew Them With Prophesying To The Old Of The New World's Worth; For Each Age Is A Dream That Is Dying, Or One That Is Coming To Birth.

A Breath Of Our Inspiration Is The Life Of Each Generation; A Wondrous Thing Of Our Dreaming Unearthly, Impossible Seeming — The Soldier, The King, And The Peasant Are Working Together In One, Till Our Dream Shall Become Their Present, And Their Work In The World Be Done.