Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely,

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him He Lags The Long Bright Morning Through, Ever So Tired Of Nothing To Do.

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

His Brow Is Seamed With Line And Scar; His Cheek Is Red And Dark As Wine; The Fires As Of A Northern Star Beneath His Cap Of Sable Shine. His Right Hand, Bared Of Leathern Glove, Hangs Open Like An Iron Gin, You Stoop To See His Pulses Move, To Hear The Blood Sweep Out And In. He Looks Some King, So Solitary In Earnest Thought He Seems To Stand, As If Across A Lonely Sea He Gazed Impatient Of The Land. Out Of The Noisy Centuries The Foolish And The Fearful Fade; Yet Burn Unquenched These Warrior Eyes, Time Hath Not Dimmed, Nor Death Dismayed.