Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.

Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.

Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time with a gift of tears, Grief with a glass that ran, Pleasure with pain for leaven, Summer with flowers that fell, Remembrance fallen from heaven, And Madness risen from hell, Strength without hands to smite, Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And Life, the shadow of death.