The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
There's little comfort in the wise
For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.