What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? — Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle...

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her...

“Not really. Save the song the sickle sings, we expire the same: lights out. But what of the florid burden of living? This one’s body craves...

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out...