When this young Land has reached its wrinkled prime, 
And we are gone and all our songs are done, 
And naught is left unchanged beneath the sun, 
What other singers shall the womb of Time 
Bring forth to reap the sunny slopes of rhyme? 
For surely till the thread of life be spun 
The world shall not lack poets, though but one 
Make lonely music like a vesper chime 
Above the heedless turmoil of the street. 
What new strange voices shall be given to these, 
What richer accents of melodious breath? 
Yet shall they, baffled, lie at Nature's feet 
Searching the volume of her mysteries, 
And vainly question the fixed eyes of Death.