If dead tongues speak, then our boys
Lying low in Southern lands,
Whisper of something more than joys
We measure by, and clasping hands,
Look into one another's eyes
With smiles as radiant as the skies.
Lying low in Southern lands,
Whisper of something more than joys
We measure by, and clasping hands,
Look into one another's eyes
With smiles as radiant as the skies.
On sweetest sunlit summer morn,
As underneath its arch they lie
Resting, as when the newly born
Of Earth its mother's lullaby
Soothes it to gentle slumber
With love, not worlds can number.
As underneath its arch they lie
Resting, as when the newly born
Of Earth its mother's lullaby
Soothes it to gentle slumber
With love, not worlds can number.
So, sometimes, may not we, as they,
Clasp hands, and smile, and thus forget,
And love, as do the blue and gray
Who fought as best they knew, and yet
Forgave, for His sake—yours and mine,
Clasping hands "across the line."
Clasp hands, and smile, and thus forget,
And love, as do the blue and gray
Who fought as best they knew, and yet
Forgave, for His sake—yours and mine,
Clasping hands "across the line."
—57—
