Very old are the woods; br And the buds that break br Out of the brier's boughs, br When March winds wake, br So old with their beauty are-- br Oh, no man knows br Through what wild centuries br Roves back the rose. br Very old are the brooks; br And the rills that rise br Where snow sleeps cold beneath br The azure skies br Sing such a history br Of come and gone, br Their every drop is as wise br As Solomon. br br Very old are we men; br Our dreams are tales br Told in dim Eden br By Eve's nightingales; br We wake and whisper awhile, br But, the day gone by, br Silence and sleep like fields br Of amaranth lie.