While The Billy BoilsSearchAcross the loom the shuttles fly,Like random, rippled lights at playUpon the road where you, where I,Drift down the Valley of To-day;White snowdrop stars beside the wayIllume the flight of fancies fled,In some far Spring-time’s snowdrop sprayOur dreams shall live when we are dead.
We quibble over how and why,Or vex our souls with “yea” and “nay;”Turn all the golden years awry,And bid the wheel of pleasure stay;And still our webs of hodden greyAre shot with many a wizard threadThat passes not with passing clay —Our dreams shall live when we are dead.
The proud, the strong, the brave shall die,All flesh shall perish e’en as they;Nor love, nor life, nor duty’s tieShall hold the fateful hour at bay:But past restraining barriers, yea,On universal pinions spread,A phoenix phalanx o’er decay,Our dreams shall live when we are dead.
With cypress gather blooms o’ may,Beyond the dark the dawn is red;Peace! sad one, tho’ the gods shall slay,Our dreams shall live when we are dead.