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

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.

Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.

Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.

Change lays not her hand upon truth.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.