You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

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

If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

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

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.