I saw the youthful singers of my day

To sound of lutes and lyres in morning hours

Trampling with eager feet the teeming flowers,

Bound for Fame’s temple upon Music’s way:

A happy band, a folk of holiday:

But some lay down and slept among the bowers;

Some turned aside to fanes of alien Powers;

Some Death took by the hand and led away.

Now gathering twilight clouds the land with grey.

Yet, where last light is lit, last pilgrims go,

Outlined in gliding shade by dying glow,

And fain with weary fortitude essay

The last ascent. The end is hid, but they

Who follow on my step shall surely know.