What harvest might we hope from such a sowing?
What noonday from a dawning so complete?
And I—I watched them working, dreaming, playing,
Saw their young bodies fit the mind's desire,
Felt them reach outward, upward, still obeying
The passionate dictates of their hidden fire.
Yet here and there some graybeard breathed derision,
"Too much of luxury, too soft an age!
Your careless Galahads will see no vision,