The old dream is gone, and the grief is here. Two hundred years has my white beard grown Before the first car rolled, before aeroplane had flown. But the dream like a madness still in my eyes appears-- That none dare touch, dare take what sweat had made Without oaktree silver on a rough palm laid. The old dream is gone, and new grief is here. My good girl's grown, and my helpmeet's fled. Thunder-cracks clout the Catskills, wild and loud, Where fairy folk drank and leapt like clouds. Now my love's still limbs lie buried and dead, And the wind blows the rain on foe and on friend And none are living who recall our fight to the end-- The old dream is gone, and my helpmeet fled.