I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon

For Now They Kill Me With A Living Death.

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here? Turn Back, Dull Earth, And Find Thy Centre Out.

Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.