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.

He shall have a noble memory.

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

True is it that we have seen better days.