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.

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.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

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

Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.