Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

Ring out the false, ring in the true.