Two Women, 1862; a Poem

T W O W O M E N.



BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. (Reprinted from Appletons’ Journal.) NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 549 AND 551 BROADWAY. 1877. COPYRIGHT BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 1877.

Through miles of green cornfields that lusty And strong face the sun and rejoice In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty With pollen from flowers of their choice, ’Mong myriads down by the river Who offer their honey, the train Flies south with a whir and a shiver, Flies south through the lowlands that quiver With ripening grain—
Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, Who bends to the breeze, while the corn Held stiff all his stubborn green lances The moment his curled leaf was born; And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping The shores of the river whose tide— Slow moving, brown tide—holds the keeping Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, Couched lions, each side.
Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded, Blue innocent maidenly eyes, That gaze at the lawless rough-handed Young soldiers with grieving surprise At oaths on their lips, the deriding And jestings that load every breath, While on with dread swiftness are gliding Their moments, and o’er them is biding The shadow of death!
Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender Small maiden with calm, home-bred air; No deep-tinted hues you might lend her Could touch the faint gold of her hair, The blue of her eyes, or the neatness Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun From threads of soft gray, whose completeness Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness— A lily turned nun.
Ohio shines on to her border, Ohio all golden with grain; The river comes up at her order, And curves toward the incoming train; “The river! The river! O borrow A speed that is swifter— Afar Kentucky! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow!” Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow, The anguish of war.
West from the Capital’s crowded throng The fiery engine rushed along, Over the road where danger lay On each bridge and curve of the midnight way, Shooting across the rivers’ laps, Up the mountains, into the gaps, Through West Virginia like the wind, Fire and sword coming on behind, Whistling defiance that echoed back To mountain guerrillas burning the track, “Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do To the train that follows, but I go through!”