The dreams of youth are fairest,
The dreams of youth are rarest;
The dreams of youth are brighter
Than the dreams we’ll know again.
Hope is the fairy weaver
For youth, a firm believer,
And great the things we’ll master
In the days when we are men.
There’s neither pain nor sorrow
In the great and grand tomorrow
For the boy who lies a-dreaming
Underneath the apple tree.
There’s neither hate nor malice
In the shining, golden chalice
The painter of the future holds
For every boy to see.
For his eyes are turned to gladness
And he sees no tear of sadness
In the visions of the future
That his soul is drinking in.
In the days to come he’ll journey
With a brave heart to life’s tourney,
And he dreams about the prizes
That in future years he’ll win.
But the dreams of age are dreary,
For the soul is, O, so weary,
And the mind goes back in sadness
To the deeds we might have done;
And, too late, we sit repining,
Soon our sun will cease its shining,
Deep regret now paints the picture
Of the prize we might have won.
Ah, the future is the brightest
And its troubles are the lightest,
For the past is filled with anguish
And with disappointments, too.
Age has trod the paths of sorrow,
He has known each glad tomorrow,
But youth is ever dreaming
Of the things he’s going to do.
