Manibus O date lilia plenis. Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand Bearing lilies in my hand. Comrades! in what soldier-grave Sleeps the bravest of the brave? Is it he who sank to rest With his colors round his breast? Friendship makes his tomb a shrine; Garlands veil it: ask not mine. One low grave, yon…
Pilgrim Notes
Just some observations about the world from a pilgrims point of view.
