There’s a chamber in our hearts, where we keep
The memories that will not die. They sleep,
But when the South Wind, mourning brings the rain,
These shrouded dreams stalk gauntly out again.
There is a drawer in most desks. Untold
The wealth we bury there — the hoop of gold,
The letter, and the photograph. Years, years,
Your sapless trunks loom through a mist of tears!
Dreamer, the years are dead — are dead and gone;
Dreamer, the years must die: their souls live on.
Close thou the chamber of thy heart! Alway
Do feet of dreamers’ idols turn to clay.
E. J. Brady, The Earthen Floor, Grafton (N.S.W.): Grip Newspaper Co., 1902