The Golden Age

This world was not As it now is seen: It once was clothed With a deeper green; And rarer gems Than the ice-caves hold The sea brought up On the sands of gold. But rust of ages, The breath of Time, The meadows covered With early rime; And the wild grass faded, The gems were gone, And the wave fell cold As it thundered on. In bygone ages The world was fair, And the moon-god played With her golden hair; And the paling stars With love-white arms Bent down to welcome A sister’s charms. The air lay sweet With the breath of pines; The hill-tops glowed With their wealth of mines; And sweet, and low, And rich, and free, The wild, dark music Stole over the sea. And the sea-waves laughed At the saffron moon; And the musk-rose smiled With her soul of June; And the golden age Of Nature’s years No warning heard Of her coming tears. But the hand of man Was the sword of death: A poison lurked In his savage breath, And the wealth of years And the glow of years Were drowned in a flood Of swelling tears. The world was fair In the days of yore; But that golden age Shall come no more. The sun may shine, And wild flowers bloom; But the goal of all Is the open tomb,— The end of all Is the silent grave; And beauty lies In the cold still wave. And the world shall harden The hearts of men Till it hear the voice Of its Christ again.