Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.

I found Him in the shining of the stars.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

Science grows and Beauty dwindles.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

And every dew-drop paints a bow.