Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.