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O you who forth along the highway ride, Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around, Be all adventure high that may betide, And gentle all enchantments therein found! I would my song were as a trumpet-sound To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power To the remembrance of your perfect hour; To ring again and again, and to recall With the might of music, all: The prescience proud, the morning aspiration, But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration!