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.

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

The noonday quiet holds the hill.