Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.

The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.