The ebony stick has brought her by the phlox and marigold,
And a dream of one is with her who loved this place the best of all,
Who was straight and clean of stature as Bayard was of old—
Who when the drummers beat the fields obeyed the drummers' call.
His letters breathed a brighter hope than any she had heard,
Nor any hint he gave to her that for his fairest youth
Death leapt and chattered daily, and daily was deterred
From staying all the transient joys that chased across his mouth.
The mother thrilled with sense of beauty infinite:
For here it was the lithe, strong arms had pressed her to his breast,