On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

"An thou wert a sword, thou might'st be beaten into a plowshare yet; wert thou a spear, into a pruning hook," says Laertes--and perhaps there is a fragment of memory lurking there, too, of the same words in an older tongue. "We know what we are, but know not what we may be. Even steel, howsoever it be honed and sharpened, can at times be forged anew."