We Are The Music-makers, And We Are

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.

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 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.

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

A Breath Of Our Inspiration / Is The Life Of Each Generation.