And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.