The master dreamed, mayhap, of his gold,
But we were awake—awake,
Buried alive in the black earth’s mold;
And some who yet could a pencil hold,
Wrote till their hands in death grew cold,
For wife or sweetheart’s sake.
Letters they wrote of farewell—farewell,
To mother, sweetheart, wife:
What words of comfort could they tell—
Comfort for those who loved them well,