We Have No Hope And Yet We

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

It Was The Hour Of Morning, When The Sun Mounts With Those Stars That Shone With It When God's Own Love First Set In Motion Those Fair Things

Love And The Gentle Heart Are But The Same Thing.

Here Let Dead Poetry Rise Once More To Life.

But If, As Morning Rises, Dreams Are True.