Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.
Oh good gray head which all men knew!
A beam in darkness: let it grow.