There’s not a flower along the wild hillside,
Or song-bird of the woods that sang and died,
But it has kinship with the winds that blow
O’er memory’s forest trees of long ago.
And not a beggar in the distant lands
But I am with him, heart and soul and hands—
To help him carry his old swag of dreams
In some great twinship of our shattered schemes;
As deep within my heart I hear the chime
Of night winds tolling all the bells of Time—