The Song Was Wordless; The Singing Will

Across The Land A Faint Blue Veil Of Mist Seems Hung; The Woods Wear Yet Arrayment Sober Till Frost Shall Make Them Flame; Silent And Whist The Drooping Cherry Orchards Of October Like Mournful Pennons Hang Their Shriveling Leaves Russet And Orange: All Things Now Decay; Long Since Ye Garnered In Your Autumn Sheaves, And Sad The Robins Pipe At Set Of Day.

I Didn't Want To Die - Not Before I'd Finished Reading The Return Of The Native Anyhow.

I Have Seen And Endured The Sufferings Of The Troops, And I Can No Longer Be A Party To Prolong These Sufferings For Ends Which I Believe To Be Evil And Unjust.

Soldiers Are Dreamers; When The Guns Begin They Think Of Firelit Homes, Clean Beds, And Wives.

Let My Soul, A Shining Tree, Silver Branches Lift Towards Thee, Where On A Hallowed Winter's Night The Clear-eyed Angels May Alight.