And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

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

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

Follow the deer? Follow the Christ the King. Live pure, speak true,right wrong, Follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?

The woods are hush'd, their music is no more; The leaf is dead, the yearning past away; New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er; New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?