The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior
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The shades of night were falling fast, As though an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
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When the sword of rebellion is drawn, the sheath should be thrown away.
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What was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is life itself?...
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Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose From out night's gray and cloudy sheath; Softly and still it grows and grows, Petal by petal, leaf by leaf.
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For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breath, And love itself have rest.
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For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
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For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast....
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For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breath, And love itself have rest.
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For the sword outwears its sheath And the soul wears out the breast And the heart must pause to breathe And love itself have rest
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For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause for breath,
And love itself have rest.
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No sheath shall hold what finds its home in flesh.
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