Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted
Over the moors and by the thundering falls
Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted
In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls

Though rains may thrash on us, the great mists blind us
And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill
Yet we are strong, yet shall the morning find us
Children of tempest all unshaken still