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Forty years ago, I stopped to browse at a cart of discarded library books on sale for a song. And while thumbing through the volumes I came upon this song that has echoed in my thinking ever since:
"Hope" by Elspeth Young. Copyright 2011.
Who dreams shall live! And if we do not dream
Then we shall build no Temple into Time.
Yon dust cloud, whirling slow against the sun,
Was yesterday's cathedral, stirred to gold
By heedless footsteps of a passing world.
The faiths of stone and steel are failed of proof.
The King who made religion of a Sword
Passes, and is forgotten in a day.
The crown he wore rots at a lily's root,
The rose unfurls her banners o'er his dust.
The dreamer dies, but never dies the dream,
Though Death shall call the whirlwind to his aid,
Enlist men's passions, trick their hearts with hate,
Still shall the Vision live! Say nevermore
That dreams are fragile things. What else endures
Of all this broken world save only dreams!
"Who Dreams Shall Live" by Dana Burnet, in Poems (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1915), p. 209