Down the long road, bent and brown,
Youth, that dearly loves a vision, 
Ventures to the gate Elysian, 
As a pilgrim from the town. 

Coming not so late, so far, 
Rocks and birches! for your story; 
Not to prate on vanished glory 
Where of old was quenched a star; 

Where of old, in lapse of toil, 
Time but mocked a prayer pathetic; 
Where the flower of good prophetic 
Starved in our New England soil. 

Ah! to Youth with radiant eyes, 
For whom grief is not, nor daunting, 
Lost glad voices still are chanting 
`Neath those unremaining skies, 

Still the dreams of fellowship 
Beat their wings of aspiration; 
And a smile of soft elation 
Trembles from its haughty lip 

If another dare deride 
Hopes heroic snapped and parted, 
Disillusion so high-hearted 
All success is mean beside.