Have you the heart? When your head did but ache He gave men speech, and speech created thought 118 46 92 82 172 152 26 I had a dream, which was not all a dream In a drear-nighted December. It must be by his death. It was the winter wild. Many a year is in its grave Me thy pupil, Youngest follower of thy drum 62 58 70 180 66 102 |