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Old are the woods

And the buds that do break

From the coarse brier's boughs,

When the fierce winds wake.

Old are our ways

As the streams that still rise,

Where the snow now sleeps cold

In the deep azure skies.

So, who are we now,

A horde of their ghosts?

Or oaks that were acorns,

From the trees of their hopes?

Sing of such a history,

Of come and of gone.

If their means they were wise,

In ourselves they live on.

So, who are we now,

A horde of their ghosts?

Or oaks that were acorns,

From the trees of their hopes?