Each joyful mouth, each blissful day is swift
To bring unto thy feet its treasured gift;
The Sisters Three, who plough, and sow, and reap,
Still gather thee Time’s grain in growing heap,
From golden age to golden age to be;
Their dreamful faces rapt in prophecy
Of veiled futurity’s potential hour
Where Fate prepareth thine immortal dower.
Arise, sweet soul! Arise, and take thy throne,
Upbuilt in ages long by stone on stone—