Ye living soldiers of the mighty war, Once more from roaring cannon and the drums And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar: Once more your Captain calls to you Come to his last review!

What if thou be saint or sinner, Crooked gray-beard, straight beginner,-- Empty paunch, or jolly dinner, When Death thee shall call. All like are rich or richer, King with crown, and cross-legged stitcher, When the grave hides all.

Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen, Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.

Since ancient Time began, Ever on some great soul God laid an infinite burden-- The weight of all this world, the hopes of man, Conflict and pain, and fame immortal are his guerdon.

What babe new born is this that in a manger cries? Near on her lowly bed his happy mother lies. Oh, see the air is shaken with white and heavenly wings-- This is the Lord of all the earth, this is the King of Kings.

My name may have buoyancy enough to float upon the sea of time.

In Heaven's happy bowers There blossom two flowers, One with fiery glow And one as white as snow While lo! before them stands, With pale and trembling hands, A spirit who must choose One, and one refuse.

Give me a theme, the little poet cried, And I will do my part, 'Tis not a theme you need, the world replied You need a heart.

Against the darkness outer God's light his likeness takes, And he from the mighty doubter The great believer makes.

In the embers shining bright A garden grows for thy delight, With roses yellow, red, and white. But, O my child, beware, beware! Touch not the roses growing there, For every rose a thorn doth bear.

A man not perfect, but of heart so high, of such heroic rage, That even his hopes became a part of earth's eternal heritage.

I count my time by times that I meet thee These are my yesterdays, my morrows, noons, And nights, these are my old moons and my new moons. Slow fly the hours, fast the hours flee, If thou art far from or art near to me: If thou art far, the bird's tunes are no tunes If thou art near, the wintry days are Junes.

Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, Polly!-Polly!- The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?