Men talk with their lips and dream with their soul
Of better days hitherward pacing;
To a happy, a glorious, golden goal
See them go running and chasing!
The world grows old and to youth returns,
But still for the Better man’s bosom burns.
It is Hope leads him in, a helpless wight;
With her presence the boy is merry;
The youth is inspired by her magic light;
Her the old man will not bury:
When he finds at the grave his weary scope,
Yet on the grave he planteth hope.
She was never begotten in Folly’s brain,
An empty illusion, to flatter;
In the heart a voice cries, loud and plain:
We are born to something better.
And that which the inner voice doth say,
Will never the hoping spirit betray.