Clay lies still but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep. Up, lad; when the journey's over There'll be time enough for sleep.

And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is, and we were young.

Lie you easy, dream you light,
And sleep you fast for aye;
And luckier may you find the night
Than ever you found the day.

Here dead lie we because we did not choose to live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; but young men think it is, and we were young.

Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.