An Old Battle-Field

Frank Lebby Stanton (1857–1927)

THE SOFTEST whisperings of the scented South,

And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;

And, where the thunders of the fight were born,

The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;

With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,

And blue skies bending over love and home.

But still the thought: Somewhere,—upon the hills,

Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,

Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat

For the loved sound of unreturning feet,

And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,

Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!