Still Bathed In Its Moonlight Slumber, The Little White House By The Cedar Stands Silent Against The Red Dawn; And Nothing I Know Of Who Sleeps There, To The Travail Of Day Yet Unwakened, Behind The Blue Curtains Undrawn: But I Dream As We March Down The Roadway, Ringing Loud And White-Rimed In The Moonlight, Of A Little Dark House On A Hill Wherein When The Battle Is Over, To The Rapture Of Day Yet Unwakened, We Shall Slumber As Dreamless And Still.