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.

Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.

But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous omnipotent, and kind.