We were sitting around the table,
Just a night or two ago,
In the little cozy parlor,
With the lamp-light burning low,
And the window-blinds half opened,
For the summer air to come,
And the painted curtains moving
Like a busy pendulum.
Oh! the cushions on the sofa,
And the pictures on the wall,
And the gathering of comforts,
In the old familiar hall;
And the wagging of the pointer,
Lounging idly by the door,
And the flitting of the shadows
From the ceiling to the floor.
Oh! they wakened in my spirit,
Like the beautiful in art,
Such a busy, busy thinking—
Such a dreaminess of heart,
That I sat among the shadows,
With my spirit all astray;
Thinking only—thinking only
Of the soldiers far away;
Of the tents beneath the moonlight,
Of the stirring tattoo’s sound,
Of the soldier in his blanket,
In his blanket on the ground;
Of the icy winter coming,
Of the cold bleak winds that blow,
And the soldier in his blanket,
In his blanket on the snow.
Of the blight upon the heather,
And the frost upon the hill,
And the whistling, whistling ever,
And the never, never still;
Of the little leaflets falling,
With the sweetest, saddest sound—
And the soldier—oh! the soldier,
In his blanket on the ground.
Thus I lingered in my dreaming,
In my dreaming far away,
Till the spirit’s picture-painting
Seemed as vivid as the day;
And the moonlight faded softly
From the window opened wide,
And the faithful, faithful pointer
Nestled closer by my side.
And I knew that ’neath the starlight,
Though the chilly frosts may fall,
That the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all.
So I gave my spirit’s painting
Just the breathing of a sound,
For the dreaming, dreaming soldier,
In his slumber on the ground.
November 24, 1861. |