When I was young I said, " Romance is dead;
Too late I have been born to see
The gold and purple peaks of pageantry,
And spears that spill their silver stars
Between the lists of holy wars.
Romance is fled. " And dreaming back I sought
For solace from the dead.

Romance was dead.
Romance is always dead to those who dream.
To those who have their being in this hour
The glory of the world is still in flower.
Valor and Beauty ride between a wall
Of singing swords and spear-heads dipped in gold,
Of bright jewels and brighter eyes and bold;
And Death and Despair flee back before the light
That never was more bright.

We are the knights of old. We are they
Who seek the brave adventure of to-day.
We are the voyageurs beating to the west,
Discoverers of new lands and new Cathays,
The North-West Passage into fairy realms
And unknown seas and sunset-tinted bays,
Or losing life itself on some vain quest.

Romance is dead. Then why does Love remain?
The self-same love that tumbled high-walled Troy,
Slew fair Elaine,
Crowded the leaves of life with joy and pain,
Broke nations, lifted gods and fashioned man
Half Michael and half Pan —
For only today I saw in two brown eyes
Romance itself, and knew
Life's prize.

Romance is dead!
Only in youth the cry.
For when romance is dead
'Tis we who die.