The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

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.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith; She reels not at the storm of warring words; She brightens at the clash of "Yes" and "No"; She sees the best that glimmers through the worst; She feels the sun is hid for the night; She spies the summer through the winter bud; She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls; She hears the lark within the songless egg; She finds the fountain where they wailed "Mirage!"

Man is man, and master of his fate.

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

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.