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

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

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.