There's Little Comfort In The Wise

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.

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.

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.

I Have Need To Busy My Heart With Quietude.