Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Briar'S Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are - Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose. Very Old Are The Brooks; And The Rills That Rise Where Snow Sleeps Cold Beneath The Azure Skies Sing Such A History Of Come And Gone, Their Every Drop Is As Wise As Solomon. Very Old Are We Men; Our Dreams Are Tales Told In Dim Eden By Eve'S Nightingales; We Wake And Whisper Awhile, But, The Day Gone By, Silence And Sleep Like Fields Of Amaranth Lie.