O May, Sweet-voice One, Going Thus Before,

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last; And Fast As It Is Driven From One Field Unfurls It In Another, Never Admitting That There Is A Shade Less Honor In The Second Field Than In The First, Or In The Third Than In The Second.

I Shall Be Found With 'indians' Engraved On My Brain When I Am Dead. A Fire Has Been Kindled Within Me, Which Will Never Go Out.

No Days Such Honored Days As These! While Yet Fair Aphrodite Reigned, Men Seeking Wide For Some Fair Thing Which Should Forever Bide On Earth, Her Beauteous Memory To Set In Fitting Frame That No Age Could Forget, Her Name In Lovely April's Name Did Hide, And Leave It There, Eternally Allied To All The Fairest Flowers Spring Did Beget.

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last.

When Love Is At Its Best, One Loves So Much That He Cannot Forget.