There’s never a care in the echoing air—
There’s never a break in the song—
And we rise with the rest when the children are blessed
And the hours have galloped along.
TUCK AWAY—LITTLE DREAMS
His nose was pressed to the grindstone—
His shoulders bent to the wheel,
One of the numbered millions
That bore no right to feel.
Child of a callous calling—
Waif of a wilful day;
I heard him murmur beneath his breath—
“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”
The loom and lathe and ledger—
Pencil and square and drill—
They saw his pain and they laughed again
As hardened headsmen will.
While ’neath their chains and chiding,
Through the gloom of the endless day,
I heard him murmur beneath his breath—
“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”
I saw him going down the hill—
I saw him pause, and start,
And bend again to the grinding grain—
Lord of a broken heart.
The sunset shadows lengthened—
The earth was turning gray,
As I caught the breath of the living death—
“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”
BLOODY ANGLE
July 3, 1863; July 3, 1913
THE SPIRIT OF BLOODY ANGLE SPEAKS.
I saw them charge across the field
The Stars and Bars above them,
I saw them fall in hundreds—
I heard the rebel yell.
Behind me, ’neath the Stars and Stripes,
I watched the blue coats pouring
Into the men of Pickett
The flaming vials of Hell.
I thought of Yorktown—Bunker Hill—
Of Valley Forge and Monmouth.
Again the Elders signed our birth—
The great Bell tolled anew.
And I closed my eyes and shuddered—
And I looked to the Lord of Battle—
And I prayed, “Forgive them Father,
For they know not what they do.”
I saw them striding o’er the field—
A gray-clad, aged remnant;
I heard again across the plain
The piercing rebel call.
Behind me, ’neath a peaceful sky,
I saw the blue coats standing—
I saw the columns meet—clasped hands—
Above my battered wall.