In men's clear eyes, there live the bravest things:
A hope that sings, as brave as any bird;
Though it should fly, through hours of glancing rain
That scarce has ceased, before it's song is heard.

In men's quiet thoughts, dwell hours of silent pain,
Though it wake you not, the minutes crawling by;
Like stately columns of soldiers, on parade,
The only shot fired's a lone tear, from his eye.

In men's bold dreams, are things not ever seen;
Yet mirror tomorrow's face there, in the rooms,
And flowers rare, not seen before on Earth;
But upon his least intention, they must bloom.

In men's most hidden soul, nobody knows
What ties the form, into his very mind;
Though it's the secret, central mystery:
Goes back too far, for anyone to find.