Bring not the lily hither; she is pale,
—And we have bought with blood the end of strife.
She lives a day; and then her glories fail.
—The peace we died for shall outlive our life.

Make not the dove an emblem; she hath wings,
—And she will fly: 'tis not her cooing song
That shall proclaim the concord whence there springs
Stern peace—a joy inflexible and strong.