Right through the line they broke; Reeled from the sabre-stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not— Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; When can their glory fade? The Night FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON (Born March 22, 1852; —) The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies "He was a friend to man, and he lived in a house by the side of the road."-Homer. There are hermit souls that live withdrawn There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. Let me live in a house by the side of the road, The men who are good and the men who are bad, I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban Let me live in a house by the side of the road I see from my house by the side of the road, The men who press with the ardor of hope, But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, Let me live in a house by the side of the road I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead That the road passes on through the long afternoon But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, Let me live in my house by the side of the road- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are Wise, foolish-so am I; Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Let me live in my house by the side of the road Used by special arrangement with the I Have a Rendezvous with Death ALAN SEEGER (Born June 22, 1888; Died July 4, 1916) I have a rendezvous with Death And apple blossoms fill the air. I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. And close my eyes and quench my breath; I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, At midnight in some flaming town, One of the greatest war poems written 'he world war From "Poems by Alan Seeger" Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sone We are the Dead. Short days ago Take up our quarrel with the foe; By courtesy of Punch Moonlight WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven. From "Merchant of Venice' |