For surely in the blind deep-buried roots Of all men's souls to-day A secret quiver shoots.

And you prate of the wealth of nations, as if it were bought and sold, The wealth of nations is men, not silk and cotton and gold.

I do not know beneath what sky nor on what seas shall be thy fate; I only know it shall be high, I only know it shall be great.

For 't is always fair weather When good fellows get together With a stein on the table and a good song ringing clear.

I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.

You to the left and I to the right, For the ways of men must sever-- And it may be for a day and a night, And it well may be forever. But whether we meet or whether we part, (For our ways are past our knowing) A pledge from the heart to its fellow heart, On the ways we all are going! Here's luck! For we know not where we are going.