Iv

What though fogs may stream from draining waters? We will till the clays to mellow loam; Wake the graveyard of our fathers' spirits; Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and bloom.

V.

Old decays but foster new creations; Bones and ashes feed the golden corn; Fresh elixirs wander every moment, Down the veins through which the live past feeds its child, the live unborn.