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.