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My candles are burning all over this land, light the dark road for the man passing by.
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The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
NEWYORKER: Union Man
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But with all the fuss being made over the land some refer to as hallowed ground, is it possible that this is all just about money?
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And all this time, as she thought about Harley, the bells rang out over the snowy land.
NEWYORKER: The Bell Ringer