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Alas, we must mow again, again The shallow grass, the poppy fields, The tulip glade o'er yonder glen Until in solemn rest we mend. Not for this time of rest we seek, Our swords, not plowshares, and our shields, Our burdens heavy carried 'til we meet And on this field our foe defeat. In long rows the harvest comes, The youthsprigs' archaic drills! The scathe we raise in unison A fire so bright outshines the sun! Cut down! Cut down! And then were none. (Ode to Longfellow's AFTERMATH)