It Were Better To Be A Soldier's

After A Debauch Of Thunder-shower, The Weather Takes The Pledge And Signs It With A Rainbow.

It Were Better To Be A Soldier's Widow Than A Coward's Wife.

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!

True Art Selects And Paraphrases, But Seldom Gives A Verbatim Translation.

At The Beginning Of The Twentieth Century Barbarism Can Throw Off Its Gentle Disguise, And Burn A Man At The Stake As Complacently As In The Middle Ages.