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We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamer of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties, We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of 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. 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. -Ode by Arthur O'Shaugnessy |
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