Man Has Never Been The Same Since

Oh, Friend, Forget Not, When You Fain Would Note In Me A Beauty That Was Never Mine, How First You Knew Me In A Book I Wrote, How First You Loved Me For A Written Line.

But She Was Not Made For Any Man, And She Will Never Be All Mine.

Martyred Many Times Must Be Who Would Keep His Country Free.

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

We Think-although Of Course, Now, We Very Seldom Clearly Think- That The Other Side Of War Is Peace.