The cry is that the world grows old,—
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Though I, for one, the charge gainsay,—
That every fairy-tale is told,
And all Romance is passed away:
Believe it not, this summer day,
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Better believe yon running stream
That hath this wiser thing to say—
Life's still the same old foolish dream.
Yea! let the shrill reformers scold,
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And all our fond illusions flay,
Our blood refuses to run cold,
Our happy hearts know more than they,
The splendid something in our clay
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Shrivels with fire their dusty theme;
Come, sweetheart, kiss we while we may—
Life's still the same old foolish dream.
Still the old earth, with blue and gold,
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Laughs at the gospels of decay,
Rings to the stars its challenge bold,
And works its work, and plays its play,
What though the devil be to pay;
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Living's a gay and gallant scheme,
'Tis only fools that say it nay—
Life's still the same old foolish dream.
Lord of my Being, I humbly lay
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Thanks at Thy throne, how strange it seem
For life, that too brief holiday,
Life—still the same old foolish dream.