Ring out the false, ring in the true.

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

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.