Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

As on this whirligig of Time/ We circle with the seasons.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?