Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Silence, beautiful voice.