Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.
Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.