Which they had of old, when they stood
Years ago at my side
In this self-same garden, and said,—
"We are young, and the world is ours;
Man, man is king of the world!
Fools that these mystics are
Who prate of Nature! but she
Hath neither beauty, nor warmth,
Nor life, nor emotion, nor power.
But man has a thousand gifts,
And the generous dreamer invests
The senseless world with them all.
Nature is nothing; her charm
Lives in our eyes which can paint,
Lives in our hearts which can feel."
Thou, O Nature, wast mute,
Mute as of old! Days flew,
Days and years; and Time
With the ceaseless stroke of his wings
Brushed off the bloom from their soul.
Clouded and dim grew their eye,
Languid their heart—for youth
Quickened its pulses no more.
Slowly, within the walls
Of an ever-narrowing world,
They drooped, they grew blind, they grew old.
Thee, and their youth in thee,
Nature! they saw no more.
Murmur of living,
Stir of existence,
Soul of the world!
