A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hope to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What sans where they need!

I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.