Which I Wish To Remark-- And My

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

And Then, For An Old Man Like Me, It's Not Exactly Right,this Kind O' Playing Soldier With No Enemy In Sight.

If, Of All Words Of Tongue And Pen, The Saddest Are, It Might Have Been,' More Sad Are These We Daily See: 'it Is, But Hadn't Ought To Be!'

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

Your Voices Break And Falter In The Darkness, Break, Falter, And Are Still.