None, Ode To Longfellow's "aftermath"
Alas, we must mow again, again
The Shallow grass, the poppy fields,
The tuliped 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.
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