When My Old Heart Was Young, My Dear, The Earth And Heaven Were So Near That In My Dreams I Oft Could Hear The Steps Of Unseen Races; In Woodlands, Where Bright Waters Ran, On Hills, God'S Rainbows Used To Span, I Followed Voices Not Of Man, And Smiled In Spirit Faces. Now My Old Heart Is Old, My Sweet, No Longer Earth And Heaven Meet; All Life Is Grown To One Long Street Where Fact With Fancy Clashes; The Voices Now That Speak To Me Are Prose Instead Of Poetry: And In The Faces Now I See Is Less Of Flame Than Ashes.