And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit

O God Of Battles! Steel My Soldiers’ Hearts. Possess Them Not With Fear.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That Thought.