The morning’s rim;

 Or the dark thrushes clear

 Their flutes of music leisurely and sheer,

 Then hush to hear.

 I know him when the last red brands of day

 Smoulder away,

 And when the vernal showers

 Bring back the heart to all my valley flowers

 In the soft hours.

 O hand of mine and brain of mine, be yours,

 While time endures,

 To acquiesce and learn!

 For what we best may dare and drudge and yearn,

 Let soul discern.

 So, fellows, we shall reach the gusty gate,

 Early or late,

 And part without remorse,

 A cadence dying down unto its source

 In music’s course;

14

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