The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.