The quiet sense of something lost

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

The last great Englishman is low.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.