THE CHOICE.

Comrade, now that you're merry

And therefore true,

Say — where would you like to die

And have your friend to bury

What once was you?

“On the top of a hill

With a peaceful view

Of country where all is still?”...

Great God, not I!

I'd lie in the street

Where two streams meet

And there's noise enough to fill

The outer ear,

While within the brain can beat

Marches of death and life,

Glory and joy and fear,

Peace of the sort that moves

And clash of strife

And routs of armies fleeing.

There would I shake myself clear

Out of the deep-set grooves

Of my sluggish being.