With The Tears A Land Hath Shed.

Decoration Day Is The Most Beautiful Of Our National Holidays.... The Grim Cannon Have Turned Into Palm Branches, And The Shell And Shrapnel Into Peach Blossoms.

October Turned My Maple's Leaves To Gold; The Most Are Gone Now; Here And There One Lingers: Soon These Will Slip From The Twigs' Weak Hold, Like Coins Between A Dying Miser's Fingers.

All The Best Sands Of My Life Are Somehow Getting Into The Wrong End Of The Hourglass. If I Could Only Reverse It! Were It In My Power To Do Sowould I?

Those Forms We Fancy Shadows, Those Strange Lights That Flash On Dank Morasses, The Quick Wind That Smites Us By The Roadside—are The Night's Innumerable Children. Unconfined By Shroud Or Coffin, Disembodied Souls, Uneasy Spirits, Steal Into The Air From Festering Graveyards When The Curfew Tolls At The Day's Death... And Wheresoever Murders Have Been Done, In Stately Palaces Or Lonesome Woods, Where'er A Soul Has Sold Itself And Lost Its High Inheritance, There, Hovering, Broods Some Sad, Invisible, Accurséd Ghost!

Turn On Its Noiseless Hinges, Delicate Sleep!