by Edward Alan Bartholomew 

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As lips and flesh on chilling cheeks are cherried

 With the morning's touch

 Although they wrinkle in the twilight's clutch,

So let day fade

 And night parade;

So let the sun be buried

 But march its fires on the moonlight's crutch;

And if the sun in summer sky burns sere

 But in the winter white

 Can't but reflect itself in icy light,

Then let it burn

 The eyes that spurn

 The turning of the year;

Then let its fires singe all ling'ring sight.

As lips and tongues in chilly cheeks defend

 Their shape in shallow plots;

 Seem capable of speaking as they rot,

So peace is sought

 Though war is fought

 Not till all battles end;

 Not till we cremate those we last forgot;

And if our sons in some strange sinking hour

 Find their hunger slain

 But avarice and rivalry remain,

Then let our ashes'

 Cinders' flashes

 Dilate and devour

 That surfeit our expansion sustains.