Like idle children at the Gate of Dreams,
Piping the times we caught along the road
Of half-forgotten days,
We sit with folded hands and watch the gleams
Of light that fall on yet untrodden ways.
Each day we build new castles in the air
On ruins left from those of yesterday
That fell ere half complete;
Each day comes promise of a land more fair
And echoes of new songs more weird, more sweet.
For Hope that springs eternal in the soul
Fills all the rugged way of human toil
With silver-tinted gleams;
Gives every day new promise to unfold
And makes us children at the Gate of Dreams.