Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.
And then I hear the brave Sun's voice,
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
"Old age comes never—Oh, rejoice—
Except to those who beckon him.
"All that youth's dreams are nourished by,
By that shall dreams in age be fed—
Thy noble dreams can never die