Hamilton Fish Armstrong

HE limped beneath the Arch, across the Square,

And through the dazzling shaft of rainbow-air

That blew from where the busy fountain leaped.

For him within that vision-laden cloud

There were no peaceful hills, no valleys loud

With streams, no fields in honeysuckle steeped.

Grim hills there were, emplumed with puffs of smoke—

Valleys there were, where biting guns awoke

Echoes that died amid the eternal din—

Broad honeysuckle-bordered fields there were,

Stamped down by passing troops,—and in the air

That smell which only is where war has been.