thanksgiving poetry

in mournful numbers
the sun is up
do not grieve that it is over
in their ragged regimentals
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
i have heard that a certain princess
before the solemn bronze saint
he came and took me by the hand
when i looked into your eyes
do the boys and girls still go
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
did you ever hear of
up and down he goes