The shell must break before the bird can fly.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.