The cross is red, blood red;
Eternal change in girded loins,
And progress, hide the dead.
The hour glass turns, the mill-wheels hum,
O’er arching field and hill,
In rainbow tints a finger writes:
“Peace, Peace on Earth, Good Will.”
I glimpse the narrow winding streets,
Where linden trees bend o’er,
And homes with windows quaintly draped,