In social halls a favored guest
In years that follow victory won,
How sweet to feel your festal fame,
In woman’s glance instinctive thrown:
Repose is yours—your deed is known,
It musks the amber wine;
It lives, and sheds a litle from storied days
Rich as October sunsets brown,
Which make the barren place to shine.
But seldom the laurel wreath is seen