Spring at her height on a morn at prime,

Sails that laugh from a flying squall,

Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,

An empty flagon, a folded page,

A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,

Swords that clatter in onsets tall,

The words that ring and the fames that climb —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

Hymnals old in a dusty stall,

A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,

The scene of a faded festival —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,

Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call,

Songs where the singers their souls sublime —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

A staff that rests in a nook of wall,

A reeling battle, a rusted gage,

The chant of a nearing funeral —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

A smouldering hearth and a silent stage —

These are a type of the world of Age.