The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!

The year is dying in the night.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.