Classic Poem

How can we reason still, how look afar,
Who, these three years now, are
Drifting, poor flotsam hugely heaved and hurled
In the birthday of a world,
Upon the waves of the creative sea?
How gain lucidity
Or even keep the faith wherewith at first
We met the storm that burst,
The singing hope of revolution's prime?
For in that noble time
We saw the petty world dissolve away
And fade into a day
Where dwelt new spirits of a better growth,
Unchecked by spite and sloth.
We saw, and even now we seem to see
In fitful revery,
Like hills obscured and hid by earthly mist,
The hopes that first we kissed:
We see them—catch at them and lose again
In apathy and pain
What maybe was (thought it once seemed ours to hold)
No more than fairy gold.