- Gay, Byron.
My Angel of the Flaming Cross.
Sunset Publishing Corp, New York, 1918, Wraps, , , Very Good
, 2-3,  pp. Some wear at edges. As sung by Madame Schumann-Heink for our boys of the Army and Navy. Byron Gay wrote the music for the L. Frank Baum song "Susan Doozan." Madame Schumann-Heink was an operatic contralto, most highly respected at the time, associated with the Bayreuth festival and the Metropolitan Opera, and a familiar of Struass and Mahler. During WWI she toured the United States raising money for the war effort even though she had sons in both the German and the U.S. Navy. ''There's an angel over there An angel from I know not where Smiling sweetly through her tears She drove my fears away. Little Girl who nursed me through, I owe my life to you Oh Come back, love that I found and lost My Angel of the Flaming Cross.''
AN ODE ON THE SPRING
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet, hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect-youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring And float amid the liquid noon; Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colors dressed: Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chilled by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display; On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone - We frolic, while 'tis May.Thomas Gray [1716-1771]