on the contrary, the soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest the ominous thening for me. the tht is here. my days of old have vanished, tone and tint. they have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that melody of faint bugles blo reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. in my dreams i hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.
but in the evening of my memory, alhts will be of the corps, and the corps, and the corps.
i bid you farewell.
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