I cannot sing the old songs
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
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I cannot sing the old songs
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon;
Yet though I'm filled with music,
As choirs of summer birds,
"I cannot sing the old songs"--
I do not know the words.

In the ink of our sweat we will find it yet,
The song that is fit for men!

In the ink of our sweat we will find it yet,
The song that is fit for men!

I had wanted to say that my song was far too painful to sing.

I had wanted to say that my song was far too painful to sing.

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.

The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavor,
A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave--
The read more

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavor,
A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave--
The world goes round forever;
I think that life is not too long,
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song,
Who will not read a sermon.

You must pass your days in song. Let your whole life be a song.

You must pass your days in song. Let your whole life be a song.

A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let read more

A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We life our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,
England.