But the gray and the cold are haunted by a beauty akin to pain, by a sense of a something wanted that never will come again.

The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger’s ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

The Poet in his ArtMust intimate the whole, and say the smallest part.

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,-The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife....The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.

Of every noble work the silent part is best of all expression, that which cannot be expressed.

They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight -- if need be, to die.