Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

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

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.