And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.

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

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

O last regret, regret can die!

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.