Here, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead, Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre Of fallen white petals¹ and leaves that are mellow² and red, Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.

    We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest, Let us scatter³ their ashes away, for a while let us mourn； We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.

    But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again Into the war of the world and the strife⁴ of the throng⁵； Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain, We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.