A lovely December morning like this,
connotes nothing else in our world but bliss.
A time to mine our richest depths of love
on fifth avenue's apartments above. ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.