The woods decay, the woods decay and fall... - Alfred Tennyson

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
too full for sound or foam,
when that which drew from out
the boundless deep
turns again home.

There rolls the deep where grew the tree
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars hath been.
The stillness of the central sea.