Silence and sleep like fields of amaranth lie
Very old are the woods
And the buds that break out of the briers boughs
When March winds wake
So old with their beauty are
Oh no man knows through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose
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
We wake and whisper a while
But the day gone by
Very old are we men
Our dreams are tales told in dim Eden
By Eve's nightingales.