It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind,

When Life Knocks At The Door No One Can Wait, When Death Makes His Arrest We Have To Go.

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.

Once In A Century A Man May Be Ruined Or Made Insufferable By Praise. But Surely Once In A Minute Something Generous Dies For Want Of It.

The Social States Of Human Kinds Are Made By Multitudes Of Minds, And After Multitudes Of Years A Little Human Growth Appears Worth Having, Even To The Soul Who Sees Most Plain It's Not The Whole.

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