Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.