How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
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.