But for our dashed illusions we make moan,
Our spiritual aims grown limp and limper,
Our glorious aspirations
Touching a really noble League of Nations.
So, like a phantom dawn, it fades to dark,
This vision of a world made new and better;
And he whose heavenly notes recalled the lark
Soaring, in air without an earthly fetter—
WILSON is gone, the mystic,
Whose views, like ours, were so idealistic!