NO MORE.
Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness
That broke with the morn from the cottager's door—
Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness,
For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth
No more.
Silent he lies on the broad path of glory,
Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war.
Grand is his couch, though the pillows are gory,
'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle