Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. - Alfred Tennyson

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
That lie upon her charmed heart
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

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