The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.