Poems by William Dean Howells Part 13

FOR ONE OF THE KILLED.

There on the field of battle Lies the young warrior dead: Who shall speak in the soldier's honor?

How shall his praise be said?

Cannon, there in the battle, Thundered the soldier's praise, Hark! how the volumed volleys echo Down through the far-off days!

Tears for the grief of a father, For a mother's anguish, tears; But for him that died in his country's battle, Glory and endless years.

THE TWO WIVES.

(TO COLONEL J. G. M., IN MEMORY OF THE EVENT BEFORE ATLANTA.)

I.

The colonel rode by his picket-line In the pleasant morning sun, That glanced from him far off to s.h.i.+ne On the crouching rebel picket's gun.

II.

From his command the captain strode Out with a grave salute, And talked with the colonel as he rode;-- The picket levelled his piece to shoot.

III.

The colonel rode and the captain walked,-- The arm of the picket tired; Their faces almost touched as they talked, And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.

IV.

The captain fell at the horse's feet, Wounded and hurt to death, Calling upon a name that was sweet As G.o.d is good, with his dying breath.

V.

And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt To close the eyes so dim, A high remorse for G.o.d's mercy felt, Knowing the shot was meant for him.

VI.

And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath, The name of his own young wife: For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death, Alone could make his with life.

BEREAVED.

The pa.s.sionate humming-birds cling To the honeysuckles' hearts; In and out at the open window The twittering house-wren darts, And the sun is bright.

June is young, and warm, and sweet; The morning is gay and new; Glimmers yet the gra.s.s of the door-yard, Pearl-gray with fragrant dew, And the sun is bright.

From the mill, upon the stream, A busy murmur swells; On to the pasture go the cattle, Lowing, with tinkling bells, And the sun is bright.

She gathers his playthings up, And dreamily puts them by; Children are playing in the meadow, She hears their joyous cry, And the sun is bright.

She sits and clasps her brow, And looks with swollen eyes On the landscape that reels and dances,-- To herself she softly cries, And the sun is bright.

THE SNOW-BIRDS.

The lonesome graveyard lieth, A deep with silent waves Of night-long snow, all white, and billowed Over the hidden graves.

The snow-birds come in the morning, Flocking and fluttering low, And light on the graveyard brambles, And twitter there in the snow.

The Singer, old and weary, Looks out from his narrow room: "Ah, me! but my thoughts are snow-birds, Haunting a graveyard gloom,

"Where all the Past is buried And dead, these many years, Under the drifted whiteness Of frozen falls of tears.

"Poor birds! that know not summer, Nor sun, nor flowers fair,-- Only the graveyard brambles, And graves, and winter air!"

VAGARY.

Up and down the dusty street, I hurry with my burning feet; Against my face the wind-waves beat, Fierce from the city-sea of heat.

Deep in my heart the vision is, Of meadow gra.s.s and meadow trees Blown silver in the summer breeze, And ripe, red, hillside strawberries.

My sense the city tumult fills,-- The tumult that about me reels Of strokes and cries, and feet and wheels.

Deep in my dream I list, and, hark!

From out the maple's leafy dark, The fluting of the meadow lark!

About the thronged street I go: There is no face here that I know; Of all that pa.s.s me to and fro There is no face here that I know.

Deep in my soul's most sacred place, With a sweet pain I look and trace The features of a tender face, All lit with love and girlish grace.

Some spell is on me, for I seem A memory of the past, a dream Of happiness remembered dim, Unto myself that walk the street Scathed with the city's noontide heat, With puzzled brain and burning feet.

FEUERBILDER.