BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME By the bivouac's fitful flame, A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow; — but first I note, The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim outline, The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire - the silence; Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving; The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me ;) While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts, Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away; A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground, O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAY-BREAK GREY AND DIM A sight in camp in the day-break grey and dim, As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless, As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital tent, Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying, Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket, Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. Curious, I halt and silent stand; Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket: Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade? Then to the second I step- and who are you, my child and darling? Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man, I think I know you—I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself; Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies. A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER A noiseless, patient spider, I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres, to connect them; Till the bridge you will need, be form'd till the ductile anchor hold; Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TO-DAY Hush'd be the camps to-day; I And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons; No more for him life's stormy conflicts; Nor victory, nor defeat — no more time's dark events, But sing, poet, in our name; II Sing of the love we bore him- because you, dweller in camps, TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, (Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st, Far, far at sea, After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean, Thou also re-appearest. Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings) To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America, That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul, What joys! what joys were thine! COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete ; And come to the front door, mother- - here's a letter from thy dear son. Lo, 't is autumn, Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind; Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellised vines; (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines ? Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds, Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well. Down in the fields all prospers well; But now from the fields come, father, come at the daughter's call ; And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come right away. Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling; She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. Open the envelope quickly; O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd; O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul ! All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only; Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better. Ah, now, the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans. Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs; The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismay'd ;) See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul;) While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already; |