Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

There's Not A Ship That Sails The Ocean, But Every Climate, Every Soil, Must Bring Its Tribute, Great Or Small, And Help To Build The Wooden Wall!

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

Your Silent Tents Of Green We Deck With Fragrant Flowers; Yours Has The Suffering Been, The Memory Shall Be Ours.

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.