⁠With the slowly-smoked cigar—
The scheme that smouldered through winter long
⁠Now bursts into act—into waw—
The resolute scheme of a heart as calm
⁠As the Cyclone's core.

⁠The fight for the city is fought
⁠In Nature's old domain;
⁠Man goes out to the wilds,
⁠And Orpheus' charm is vain.

In glades they meet skull after skull
⁠Where pine-cones lay—the rusted gun,
Green shoes full of bones, the mouldering coat
⁠And cuddled-up skeleton;
And scores of such. Some start as in dreams,
⁠And comrades lost bemoan:
By the edge of those wilds Stonewall had charged—
⁠But the Year and the Man were gone.

⁠At the height of their madness
⁠The night winds pause,
⁠Recollecting themselves;