Jefferson Davis:
No more the white refulgent streets.
Never the dry hollows of the
Shall he in fine courtesy
Again, for death is not unkind.
A civil war cast on his fame,
The four years' odium of
Unbodies his dust; love cannot
His tall corpuscles to this life.
What did we gain?
What did we lose?
Be still; grief for the pious
Suspires from bosoms of kind
Lavender-wise, propped up in bed.
Our loss put six feet under
Is measured by the magnolia's root;
Our gain's the intellectual
Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
In the back chambers of the State(Just preterition for his crimes)We curse him to our busy
Who's busy in a hell a hundred timesA day, though profitless his task,
Heedless what Belial may say-He who wore out the perfect
Orestes fled in night and day.
