[During An Anti-Saloon Campaign, In Central Illinois.] In The Midst Of The Battle I Turned, (For The Thunders Could Flourish Without Me) And Hid By A Rose-Hung Wall, Forgetting The Murder About Me; And Wrote, From My Wound, On The Stone, In Mirth, Half Prayer, Half Play: - "Send Me A Picture Book, Send Me A Song, To-Day." I Saw Him There By The Wall When I Scarce Had Written The Line, In The Enemy'S Colors Dressed And The Serpent-Standard Of Wine Writhing Its Withered Length From His Ghostly Hands O'Er The Ground, And There By His Shadowy Breast The Glorious Poem I Found. This Was His World-Old Cry: Thus Read The Famous Prayer: "Wine, Wine, Wine And Flowers And Cup-Bearers Always Fair!" 'Twas A Book Of The Snares Of Earth Bordered In Gold And Blue, And I Read Each Line To The Wind And Read To The Roses Too: And They Nodded Their Womanly Heads And Told To The Wall Just Why For Wine Of The Earth Men Bleed, Kingdoms And Empires Die. I Envied The Grape Stained Sage: (The Roses Were Praising Him.) The Ways Of The World Seemed Good And The Glory Of Heaven Dim. I Envied The Endless Kings Who Found Great Pearls In The Mire, Who Bought With The Nation'S Life The Cup Of Delicious Fire. But The Wine Of God Came Down, And I Drank It Out Of The Air. (Fair Is The Serpent-Cup, But The Cup Of God More Fair.) The Wine Of God Came Down That Makes No Drinker To Weep. And I Went Back To Battle Again Leaving The Singer Asleep.