The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.
Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.