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I think we all are dreamers like the seven;
The morning rises from her silver throne
And smiles upon the hours we call our own.
The minutes brim like drops of golden wine
O'er Life's o'erflowing cup; we see the shine
Of perfect day on every path we scan;
And Fame's fair vaulted Temple on the span
Of rainbow arches is upheld--and gleams
In every future of our boyhood dreams.
But while we follow every promise sweet,
With buoyant hearts and lightly springing feet,
To where some joy untasted yet awaits,--
We hear the solemn sound of closing gates;
And driven by Care, we leave the City bright,
To mount with aching feet some rocky height
Where Time dispels the hopes that Fancy gave,
And all life's prospect narrows to a cave.
Less sweet we sleep than did the sleepers seven,
Our dreams are shadows--theirs were bright with Heaven.
Haply to every soul there comes an hour
When Sorrow's hand smites in the wall with power,
Or Love hath breathed a whisper soft and low,
And wrought the miracle of Jericho.

And thus we come again or soon or late,
To pass once more the mystic City's gate.
Our hearts grow tender as we view again