Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are

Grey Time-worn Marbles Hold The Pure Muses. In Their Cool Gallery, By Yellow Tiber, They Still Look Fair.

Too Quick Despairer, Wherefore Wilt Thou Go? Soon Will The High Midsummer Pomps Come On, Soon Will The Musk Carnations Break And Swell.

It Is Not In The Outward And Visible World Of Material Life That The Celtic Genius Of Wales Or Ireland Can At This Day Hope To Count For Much; It Is In The Inward World Of Thought And Science.what It Has Been, What Is Has Done, What It Will Be Or Will Do, As A Matter Of Modern Politics.

But Often, In The World’s Most Crowded Streets, But Often, In The Din Of Strife, There Rises An Unspeakable Desire After The Knowledge Of Our Buried Life; A Thirst To Spend Our Fire And Restless Force In Tracking Out Our True, Original Course; A Longing To Inquire Into The Mystery Of This Heart Which Beats So Wild, So Deep In Us—to Know Whence Our Lives Come And Where They Go.

Sand-strewn Caverns, Cool And Deep, Where The Winds Are All Asleep; Where The Spent Lights Quiver And Gleam; Where The Salt Weed Sways In The Stream.