Through death they win.

Softly the evening hush
Stilling strife's maddened rush
Cools the fierce battle flush,--
See the day die;
A thousand faces white
Mirror the cold moonlight
And glassy eyes are bright
With Victory.




Content.

I have been wandering where the daisies grow,
Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw
Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw
Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow
From timothy and yellow buttercup,
So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,
Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep
Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep
Over the meadows and adown the hill.
So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,
Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.