Over the hearth with my 'minishing eyes I muse; until after
the last coal dies.
Every tunnel of the mouse,
every channel of the cricket,
An October like November;
August a hundred thousand hours,
That day the sunlight lay on the farms;
On the morrow the bitter frost that there was!
That night my young love lay in my arms,
The morrow how bitter it was!
I meet with two soldiers sometimes here in Hell
The one, with a tear on the seat of hi red pantaloons
Was stuck by a pitchfork,
I should like to imagine
A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
The little angels of Heaven
Each wear a long white dress,
And in the tall arcadings
Play ball and play at chess;