Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Love is this thing that we pursue today, tonight, for ever, We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver: For Love, — our life and all our years are cast upon the waves; Our heart is as the hand that steers; — but who is …

Spread sail! For it is Hope today that like a wind new-risen Doth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon, That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning, That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.

O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go, And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.

The stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay, And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away.

Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before:

But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see

And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted, And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may,

They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going: But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart;

A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one,

We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth;

With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: