A Field Of Glory Is A Field

Pleasure, Or Wrong Or Rightly Understood, Our Greatest Evil, Or Our Greatest Good.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

O Peace! How Many Wars Were Waged In Thy Name.

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There. These Equal Syllables Alone Require, Though Oft The Ear The Open Vowels Tire While Expletives Their Feeble Aid Do Join, And Ten Low Words Oft Creep In One Dull Line.