No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.