Not all sad bugles blown,
Can honor them grown saintlier with the years.
Nor can we praise alone
In the majestic reticence of stone:
Not even our lyric tears
Can honor them, passed upward to their spheres.
Nay, we must meet our august hour of fate
As they met theirs; and this will consecrate,
This honor them, this stir their souls afar,
Where they are climbing to an ampler star.