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O you who forth along the highway ride,
Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around,
Be all adventure high that may betide,
And gentle all enchantments therein found!
I would my song were as a trumpet-sound
To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power
To the remembrance of your perfect hour;
To ring again and again, and to recall
With the might of music, all:
The prescience proud, the morning aspiration,
But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration!