These bloody dead
That debt we owe,
Abide with me,
Never let me go.

 

That mocking voice,
These clever folk,
Display their wit
In the cutting joke.

 

That tree that grew
Those shady nooks
This dappled sunlight
These gilded brooks.

 

For men may come to worse than dust
When love of self is breach of trust:
A moment’s respite means more to me
Than reams and reams of your philosophy.

 

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