For Each Age Is A Dream That

A Breath Of Our Inspiration / Is The Life Of Each Generation.

We Are The Music Makers, And We Are The Dreamers Of Dreams.

O Precious Is The Pause Between The Winds That Come And Go, / And Sweet The Silence Of The Shores Between The Ebb And Flow.

But On One Man's Soul It Hath Broken, / A Light That Doth Not Depart; / And His Look, Or A Word He Hath Spoken, / Wrought Flame In Another Man's Heart.

We, In The Ages Lying In The Buried Past Of The Earth, Built Nineveh With Our Sighing, And Babel Itself With Our Mirth; And O'erthrew Them With Prophesying To The Old Of The New World's Worth; For Each Age Is A Dream That Is Dying, Or One That Is Coming To Birth.