O Month When They Who Love Must

Motherhood Is Priced Of God, At Price No Man May Dare To Lessen Or Misunderstand.

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last; And Fast As It Is Driven From One Field Unfurls It In Another, Never Admitting That There Is A Shade Less Honor In The Second Field Than In The First, Or In The Third Than In The Second.

Who Longest Waits Most Surely Wins.

O Proudly Name Their Names Who Bravely Sail| To Seek Brave Lost In Arctic Snows And Seas!

I Know The Lands Are Lit, With All The Autumn Blaze Of Goldenrod.