Humans Consist Of Body, Mind And Imagination.

The Luck Will Alter And The Star Will Rise.

But He Has Gone, A Nation's Memory And Veneration, Among The Radiant, Ever Venturing On, Somewhere, With Morning, As Such Spirits Will.

It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes And A Lot Of Automatic Pistols.

So Death Obscures Your Gentle Form, So Memory Strives To Make The Darkness Bright; And, In That Heap Of Rocks, Your Body Lies, Part Of The Island Till The Planet Ends, My Gentle Comrade, Beautiful And Wise, Part Of This Crag This Bitter Surge Offends, While I, Who Pass, A Little Obscure Thing, War With This Force, And Breathe, And Am Its King.

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.