The breaking joy, the dying doubt;  
 Or revellers, all flown with wine,  
 And in a madness half divine,  
 Beating the broken tune about; 
  
 Or else the rude and rolling notes 
 That leave some strolling sailors’ throats, 
 Hoarse with the salt sprays, it may be, 
 Of many a mile of rushing sea;  
 Or some high-minded dreamer strays 
 Late through the solitary ways,  
 Nor heeds the listening night, nor me. 
  
 Or how or whence those tones be heard,  
 Hearing, the slumbering soul is stirred,