Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh-- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh-- The church so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there-- Foemen at morn, but friends at eve-- Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed in Shiloh.
Walking down a trail, I had quite a scare -- For walking straight towards me was a big ole bear. It glanced at me, and then down at its feet, Then that speciesist bear had the nerve to cross the street.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 