I Have Need To Busy My Heart

But The Best I've Known Stays Here, And Changes, Breaks, Grows Old, Is Blown About The Winds Of The World, And Fades From Brains Of Living Men, And Dies.

Breathless, We Flung Us On A Windy Hill, Laughed In The Sun, And Kissed The Lovely Grass.

In Your Arms Was Still Delight, Quiet As A Street At Night; And Thoughts Of You, I Do Remember, Were Green Leaves In A Darkened Chamber, Were Dark Clouds In A Moonless Sky.

It's All A Terrible Tragedy. And Yet, In It's Details, It's Great Fun. And - Apart From The Tragedy - I've Never Felt Happier Or Better In My Life Than In Those Days In Belgium.

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.