Which, If Not Victory, Is Yet Revenge.

So On This Windy Sea Of Land, The Fiend Walked Up And Down Alone Bent On His Prey.

Leaves Have Their Time To Fall, And Flowers To Wither At The North - Wind's Breath, And Stars To Set; But All, Thou Hast All Seasons For Thine Own, O Death!

In Contemplation Of Created Things, By Steps We May Ascend To God.

Now I See Peace To Corrupt No Less Than War To Waste.

Freely They Stood Who Stood, And Fell Who Fell.