Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): The Burial of Sir John Moore.

It is the little rift within the lute

That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Idylls of the King. Merlin and Vivien.