When they had made the cradle Of ivory and of gold, Their hearts were heavy still With the sorrow of old. And ever as they rocked, the tears Ran down, sad tears: Who is it lieth dead therein, Dead all these weary years? And still they rock that cradle there Of ivory and of gold: For in their minds the shadow is The Shadow of Old. They weep, and know not what they weep; They wait a vain re-birth: Vanity of vanities, alas, For there is but one birth On the wide green earth. |