Their’s not to make reply, Their’s not to reason why, Their’s but to do and die - Alfred Tennyson

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die.

There's not to reason why,
There's but to do and die

Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die

There rolls the deep where grew the tree.
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars, hath been
The stillness of the central sea.

The hills are shadows, and they flow
From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mist, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.