Lo, this is like a song writ long ago,
Born of the easy strength of simpler days,
Filled with the life of man, his joy, his praise,
Marriage and childhood, love, and sin, and woe,
Defeat and victory, and all men know
Of passionate remorses, and the stays
That help the weary on life's rugged ways.
A dreaming seraph felt this beauty grow
In sleep's pure hour, and with joy grown bold
Set the fair crystal in the thought of man;
And Time, with antique tints of ivory wan,
And gentle industries of rain and light,
Its stones rejoiced, and o'er them crumbled gold
Won from the boundaries of day and night.