I can not forget how he looked, the sore was a sickening sight; yet, when he was able to walk he had to return to work in the field.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

Watch and fast, march and fightclutch your gun? Day-fights and night-fights; sore is the strees; Look, through the pines what line comes on? Longstreet slants through the hauntedness? 'Tis charge for charge, and shout for yell: Such battles on battles oppress But Heaven lent strength, the Right strove well, And emerged from the Wilderness.

BUT THE THOUGHT OF YOU" "LIGHTNINGS MAY FLICKER ROUND MY HEAD" "THE AFTERNOON IS LONELY FOR YOUR FACE" "SORE IN NEED WAS I OF A FAITHFUL FRIEND" "I THOUGHT, BEFORE MY SUNLIT TWENTIETH YEAR" II TO

Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost; But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost.

Mad at heart stalked they: Loud wept the women all, Loud the Alruna wife; Sore was their need.