And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.