Between the Graves.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.
Where blood once quenched the camp-fire’s brand,
On every sod throughout the land
The silver showers slip softly down;
On every sod some growing stem
Lifts to the light a shining crown.
For underneath her bending blue,
With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew,
Glad Nature gilds the graveside gloom,