We Are The Music Makers,

For Each Age Is A Dream That Is Dying, Or One That Is Coming To Birth.

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 Are The Music-makers, And We Are The Dreamers Of Dreams, Wandering By Lone Sea-breakers, And Sitting By Desolate Streams. World-losers And World-forsakers, Upon Whom The Pale Moon Gleams; Yet We Are The Movers And Shakers, Of The World Forever, It Seems.

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

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.