Our time may hold no hope of greater things
than men have seen;
Our time may hold no hope of greater men
than men have been;
And yet our time holds hope of greater man
to paint the scene.

Shall we grow old on the wings of the dawning?
Shall this be the age that all the people sing
in the mists of future time?
Or will this be man's last brief glimpse of morning
before obliteration's final crime?

Our time has seen a hope of man's rebirth
in this our home:
Our time has seen men die to better earth
for sons to roam,
Not deeming there a paradise above, a hell below,
But 'trailing clouds of glory' as they go:

If we have faith and hope and resolution
To sink ourselves in this new revolution,
Then, though we'll be dying when the dawning's on the wing,
This will be the age of which the future's people sing.