Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

Better not be at all than not be noble.