We are all of us dreamers of dreams, <br />On visions our childhood is fed; <br />And the heart of a child is unhaunted, it seems, <br />By ghosts of dreams that are dead. <br /> <br />From childhood to youth's but a span, <br />And the years of our life are soon sped; <br />But the youth is no longer a youth, but a man, <br />When the first of his dreams is dead. <br /> <br />'Tis a cup of wormwood and gall, <br />When the doom of a great man is said; <br />And the best of a man is under a pall <br />When the best of his dreams is dead. <br /> <br />He may live on by compact and plan <br />When the fine bloom of living is shed, <br />But God pity the little that's left of a man <br />When most of his dreams are dead. <br /> <br />Let him show a brave face if he can; <br />Let him woo fame and fortune instead; <br />Yet there's not much to do, but to bury a man <br />When the last of his dreams is dead.<br /><br />William Herbert Carruth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghosts-of-dreams/
