In prayer, but the unfinished words are quelled
By groans of agony; some wait for death
With stubborn pride that scorns to murmur; some
Rave of cool forests and of shady rivers,
In their delirious pain; the dead and dying
Tenant that valley only.
C. L. Reddell.
From the sword at noonday wasting,
From the noisome pestilence,
In the depth of midnight blasting,