Breathes there a man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well.
—Sir Walter Scott.
Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, like the hailstones,
Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower,