Poem by John Kenyon

Brook of Sanguinetto, near the Lake of Thrasymene

  We win, where least we care to strive;
  And where the most we strive—we miss.
  Old Hannibal, if now alive,
  Might sadly testify to this.
  He lost the Rome, for which he came;
  And—what he never had in petto—
  Won for this little brook a name—
  Its mournful name of Sanguinetto.

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5. For the Sister’s Album

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