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

If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

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

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.

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

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.