George Henry Boker

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,— "Freedom! or leave to die!"

Love is that orbit of the restless soul Whose circle grazes the confines of space, Bounding within the limits of its race Utmost extremes.

Lovers are Like walking ghosts, they always haunt the spot Of their misdeeds.