Some quiet truth of growth and birth;
If we, the kindred on the earth,
Are kindred with her, to one issue moving on
Of melancholy night or shimmering dawn,
Surely befits we wanderers wild
To her confederate breast be reconciled;
Out of her primal sleep we came,
And she still dreams; of us that hold
Such strenuous course and venture bold,
Whom such unknown ambition stirs,