If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.