Between the midnight and the morn
When wake the weary heart and head,
Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.
I hear their cold, thin voices say:
"Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day,
Withered by age, will shrink and die!"
Will it be so? Will age slay all
The dreams of love and hope and faith—
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?
Will hearts grown old forget their youth?
And hands grown old give up the strife?
Shall we accept as ordered truth
The dismal anarchy of life?
Better die now—at once be free
Of hope and fear—renounce the whole:
For of what worth would living be
Should one—grown old—outlive one's soul?
Yet see: through curtains closely drawn
Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.
And then I hear the brave Sun's voice,
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
"Old age comes never—Oh, rejoice—
Except to those who beckon him.
"All that youth's dreams are nourished by,
By that shall dreams in age be fed—
Thy noble dreams can never die
Until thyself shall wish them dead!"