Breathless, We Flung Us On A Windy

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's Some Corner Of A Foreign Field That Is Forever England. There Shall Be In That Rich Earth A Richer Dust Concealed; A Dust Whom England Bore, Shaped, Made Aware, Gave, Once, Her Flowers To Love, Her Ways To Roam, A Body Of England's, Breathing English Air, Washed By The Rivers, Blest By Suns Of Home.

The Worst Of Slaves Is He Whom Passion Rules.

Incredibly, Inordinately, Devastatingly, Immortally, Calamitously, Hearteningly, Adorably Beautiful.

Oh! Death Will Find Me Long Before I Tire Of Watching You.

Breathless, We Flung Us On A Windy Hill, Laughed In The Sun, And Kissed The Lovely Grass.