Rest springs from strife and dissonant chords beget

Love for Love And Blood for Blood—the simple golden rule Taught by the elder gods.

Life is a chase, And man the hunter, always following on, With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense, Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still For ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep And wind-worn wolds of life.

Call no faith false which e'er has brought Relief to any laden life, Cessation to the pain of thought, Refreshment 'mid the dust of strife.

What power was this—chance, will you say? But chance, what else can it mean Than the hidden Cause of things by human reason unseen?

How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes.

[T]he world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still.