They clung together in that bright
moment of wonder, there on the magic
island, where the world was quiet,
believing all they said. And who
shall say -- whatever disenchantment
follows -- tht we ever forget magic,
or that we can ever betray, on this
leaden earth, the apple tree, the
singing, and the gold? Far out
beyond that timeless valley, a
train, on the rails for the East,
wailed back it's ghostly cry; life,
like a fume of painted smoke, a
broken wrack of cloud, drifted away.
Their world was a singing voice
again: they were young and they
could never die. This would endure
Thomas Wolfe
Look Homeward, Angel
1929