It May Be That We Cease; We

Life, A Beauty Chased By Tragic Laughter.

But He Has Gone, A Nation's Memory And Veneration, Among The Radiant, Ever Venturing On, Somewhere, With Morning, As Such Spirits Will.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries; I Never Hear The West Wind But Tears Are In My Eyes. For It Comes From The West Lands, The Old Brown Hills, And April's In The West Wind, And Daffodils.

Once In A Century A Man May Be Ruined Or Made Insufferable By Praise. But Surely Once In A Minute Something Generous Dies For Want Of It.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries.