War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

I Can't But Say It Is An Awkward Sight To See One's Native Land Receding Through The Growing Waters; It Unmans One Quite, Especially When Life Is Rather New.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.