It trembled as it stood. 

 Upon his hay the Tramp awoke, 

 The golden fountain never broke, 

 The lovely sobbing strain. 

 The melody of that brown bird 

 Awoke a delicate, prisoned chord 

 Within his sodden brain. 

 The brain of him who lived remote 

 And dreamed strange things he never wrote 

 But hoarded in his mind. 

 He would not kill the dreams he loved 

 For sake of little things that moved 

 The passions of mankind. 

 Let the red torches toss and flare, 

 And all the long-stemmed trumpets blare, 

 Let brass beat loud on brass. 

 Let the Kings ride in victory, 

 Low comes the thought amidst the cry, 

 "These visions shall but pass." 

 For, like reflections in a mirror, 

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