Then tried to feature, but could only see
The beardless man who bent to her and kissed
Her and their child and left them to enlist:
She heard his horse grind in the gravel: he
Waved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee.
Now all around her drowsed the hushful hum
Of evening insects. And his letter spoke
Of love and longings to her: nor awoke
One echo of the bugle and the drum,
But all their future in one kiss did sum.
The stars were thick now; and the western blush
Drained into darkness. With a dreamy sigh
She rocked her chair.—It must have been the cry
Of infancy that made her rise and rush
To where their child slept, and to hug and
hush.
Then she returned. But now her ease was gone.
She knew not what, she felt an unknown fear
Press, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tear
Scalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wan
As helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn.
With stony eyes she grieved against the skies,
A slow, dull, aching agony that knew
Few tears, and saw no answer shining to
Her silent questions in the stars’ still eyes
“Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.”
They could have told her. Peace was far away,
Beyond the field that belched black batteries
All the red day. ’Mid picket silences,
On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray,
Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay.
VII
THE WOMAN ON THE HILL
The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain,
And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs,
Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house,
Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane.
Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief;
And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamed
The sunset’s glare—a furious eye, which seemed
Watching the moon rise like a yellow leaf.