THE splendour falls on castle walls
            And snowy summits old in story:
        The long light shakes across the lakes,
            And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
            And thinner, clearer, farther going!
        O sweet and far from cliff and scar
            The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O love, they die in yon rich sky,
            They faint on hill or field or river:
        Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
            And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

~~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

[When you see this, post poetry into your journal if you so desire.]