If it be idle to dream at all?

The waves of the world roll hither and thither,

The tumult deepens, the days go by,

The dead men vanish—we know not whither,

The live men anguish—we know not why;

The cry of the stricken is smothered never,

The Shadow passes from street to street;

And—o’er us fadeth, for ever and ever,

The still white gleam of thy constant feet.

The hard men struggle, the students ponder,