And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,
The songster trills his rapture-breathing lay
From where he finds inviolable shrine.
And yet, within this beauty-haunted place
War keeps his dreadful engines at command.
With scarce a smile upon his frowning face,
And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...
We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers,
A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.
EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR,
in Moods and Other Verse.