Round the old house where lilacs bloomed and died,
Armed with the mimic bow my father gave,
A boy I marched and dreamed of coast and cave
And bears descending from the mountain side;
Or down dusk vistas of the arbor, wide
And cool with scent of grapes, I sped to save
Fair ladies lost in woods, for I was brave
And sought adventure equal to my pride.

That house is down; the high hour never came;
The boy remembered but in tale or jest;
Yet the good cause, O Life, is still the same;
I see the days, the scope, of East and West;
The shapes I see are of heroic name—
Scorn, poverty, disease—and this is best.