O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.