Very old are the brooks;
        And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
        The azure skies
Sing such a history
        Of come and gone,
Their every drop is as wise
        As Solomon.

Very old are we men;
        Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
        By Eve's nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile,
        But, the day gone by,
Silence and sleep like fields
        Of amaranth lie.