Man is unborn. Tomorrow he is born
Flamelike to hover o’er the moil and grime;
Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone,
Sowing a million flowers where now we mourn—
Laying new precious pavements with a song,
Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn.
I have seen lovers by those new-built walls
Clothed like the dawn, in orange, gold, and red;
Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love
Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head.