Dost Thou Know What A Hero Is?

The Warriors That Fought For Their Country, And Bled, Have Sunk To Their Rest; The Damp Earth Is Their Bed; No Stone Tells The Place Where Their Ashes Repose, Nor Points Out The Spot From The Graves Of Their Foes. They Died In Their Glory, Surrounded By Fame, And Victory's Loud Trump Their Death Did Proclaim; They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

All Was Ended Now, The Hope, And The Fear And The Sorrow, All The Aching Of The Heart, The Restless, Unsatisfied Longing, All The Dull, Deep Pain, And Constant Anguish Of Patience!

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

O Lovely Eyes Of Azure, Clear As The Waters Of A Brook That Run Limpid And Laughing In The Summer Sun!

Each Day Is A Branch Of The Tree Of Life Laden Heavily With Fruit. If We Lie Down Lazily Beneath It, We May Starve; But If We Shake The Branches, Some Of The Fruit Will Fall For Us.