But On One Man's Soul It Hath

We, In The Ages Lying In The Buried Past Of The Earth, Built Nineveh With Our Sighing, And Babel Itself With Our Mirth; And O'erthrew Them With Prophesying To The Old Of The New World's Worth; For Each Age Is A Dream That Is Dying, Or One That Is Coming To Birth.

For Each Age Is A Dream That Is Dying, Or One That Is Coming To Birth.

A Breath Of Our Inspiration Is The Life Of Each Generation; A Wondrous Thing Of Our Dreaming Unearthly, Impossible Seeming — The Soldier, The King, And The Peasant Are Working Together In One, Till Our Dream Shall Become Their Present, And Their Work In The World Be Done.

O Precious Is The Pause Between The Winds That Come And Go, / And Sweet The Silence Of The Shores Between The Ebb And Flow.

We Are The Music-makers, And We Are The Dreamers Of Dreams... Yet We Are The Movers And Shakers Of The World For Ever, It Seems.