Battle of Life

Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a [long:last] summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower [formed:found] by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with [blood:bleeding] that day and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men and [marked:masked] its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took [blood:book] into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses' hoofs, the one [prevailing:perfect] hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.