We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.

And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.