Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
We needs must love the highest when we see it.
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.