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waiting for news.
Only, standing here to-day,
With the sweetbrier's wandering breath,
And the smell of new-mown hay
In the air, "This life," I say,
"Strikes deep root in death."
With the sweetbrier's wandering breath,
And the smell of new-mown hay
In the air, "This life," I say,
"Strikes deep root in death."
Death! while here I pass the hours,
Blood is rising round your feet:
I sit ankle-deep in flowers:
On you, red shot falls in showers,
Through the battle-heat.
Blood is rising round your feet:
I sit ankle-deep in flowers:
On you, red shot falls in showers,
Through the battle-heat.
What if there I saw you lie,
Where the grasses nod and blow,
With your forehead to the sky,
And your wounds—O God! that I,—
That I bade you go!
Where the grasses nod and blow,
With your forehead to the sky,
And your wounds—O God! that I,—
That I bade you go!
Yet, were that to say once more,
"Go," I'd say, "at any cost!"
Many a heart has bled before.
God his heroes will restore;
No great soul is lost
"Go," I'd say, "at any cost!"
Many a heart has bled before.
God his heroes will restore;
No great soul is lost
