People Who Leave Their Own Time Out

I Must Go Down To The Sea Again, To The Lonely Sea And The Sky; And All I Ask Is A Tall Ship And A Star To Steer Her By.

So Death Obscures Your Gentle Form, So Memory Strives To Make The Darkness Bright; And, In That Heap Of Rocks, Your Body Lies, Part Of The Island Till The Planet Ends, My Gentle Comrade, Beautiful And Wise, Part Of This Crag This Bitter Surge Offends, While I, Who Pass, A Little Obscure Thing, War With This Force, And Breathe, And Am Its King.

State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They Grow; Grow Slow Through Centuries Of Pain, And Grow Correctly In The Main; But Only Grow By Certain Laws, Of Certain Bits In Certain Jaws.

Success Is The Brand On The Brow Of The Man Who Aimed Too Low.

But He Has Gone, A Nation's Memory And Veneration, Among The Radiant, Ever Venturing On, Somewhere, With Morning, As Such Spirits Will.