Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, … - Matthew Arnold

begin, and cease, and then again begin

Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.

And you, ye stars,
Who slowly begin to marshal,
As of old, the fields of heaven,
Your distant, melancholy lines!
Have you, too, survived yourselves?
Are you, too, what I fear to become?
You, too, once lived;
You, too, moved joyfully
Among august companions,
In an older world, peopled by Gods,
In a mightier order,
The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven.
But now, ye kindle
Your lonely, cold-shining lights,
Unwilling lingerers
In the heavenly wilderness,
For a younger, ignoble world;
And renew, by necessity,
Night after night your courses,
In echoing, unneared silence,
Above a race you know not — Uncaring and undelighted,
Without friend and without home;
Weary like us, though not
Weary with our weariness.

The Celts certainly have it in a wonderful measure.