That which we are, we are.

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Science grows and Beauty dwindles.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

Faith is believing what we cannot prove.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.