Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

Authority forgets a dying king.

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.