Even So

The days go by, the days go by,     Sadly and wearily to die:     Each with its burden of small cares,     Each with its sad gift of gray hairs     For those who sit, like me, and sigh,     The days go by! The days go by!     Ah, nevermore on shining plumes,     Shedding a rain of rare perfumes     That men call memories, they are borne     As in lifes many-visioned morn,     When Love sang in the myrtle-blooms,     Ah, nevermore on shining plumes!     Where is my life? Where is my life?     The morning of my youth was rife     With promise of a golden day.     Where have my hopes gone? Where are they,     The passion and the splendid strife?     Where is my life? Where is my life?     My thoughts take hue from this wild day,     And, like the skies, are ashen gray;     The sharp rain, falling constantly,     Lashes with whips of steel the sea:     What words are left for Hope to say?     My thoughts take hue from this wild day.     I dreamt, my life is all a dream!     That I should sing a song supreme     To gladden all sad eyes that weep,     And take the Harp to Time, and sweep     Its chords to some eternal theme.     I dreamt, my life is all a dream.     The world is very old and wan,     The sun that once so brightly shone     Is now as pale as the pale moon.     I would that Death came swift and soon;     For all my dreams are dead and gone.     The world is very old and wan.     .     .     .     .     .     The world is young, the world is strong,     But I in dreams have wandered long.     God lives. What can Death do to me     The sun is shining on the sea.     Yet shall I sing my splendid song,     The world is young, the world is strong.