The children of the flesh of men,
They pass from night to night;
They weep and laugh and labor, then
Are lost to human sight.

Musing on such a fate, the mind
Stirs with a tragic sense-
So brave they walk the stage assigned,
So soon they hurry thence.

The children of the artist's brain
Elude mortality,
O'er them Time swings his scythe in
vain,
Till time no more shall be.

In many hearts, in many lands,
They live again their tale,
As, young or old, the Future's hands
Arise to give them hail.

As here the crafts of men assure
Their presence to the years,
So too shall Memory's bronze endure,
With all their smiles and tears.

Such lives within our lives can be;
Such comrades Art can give.
Are men but shadows? is it we
Or they who truly live?