Like wind-torn clouds our days flit by,
Thin shadows of a shadowy earth,
And a pale sky.
We, and this land we tread, grow old,
Its thoughts, loves, ways are strange and dark,
Its ancient wrongs—a tale oft told—
Men cease to mark.
Its future? Nay, enough, enough!
See where the hills o’ertop the plains,
So smooth and vast, so poor and rough,