War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.