Without A Home Must The Soldier Go,

Thus Arm In Arm With Thee I Dare Defy My Century Into The Lists.

Even Now, Nature Is The Only Flame, On Which The Poetic Spirit Feeds; From It Alone It Draws All Its Power, To It Alone It Speaks Even In The Artificial, In The Man Engaged In Culture.

Without A Home Must The Soldier Go, A Changeful Wanderer, And Can Warm Himself At No Home-lit Hearth.

Disappointments Are To The Soul What A Thunderstorm Is To The Air.

The World's History Is Constant, Like The Laws Of Nature, And Simple, Like The Souls Of Men. The Same Conditions Continually Produce The Same Results.