Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

The mighty hopes that make us men.