[COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER]
Come up from the fields father, here's
a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door mother,
here's a letter from thy dear son.
Lo, 't is autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green,
yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with
leaves fluttering in the moderate
wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang
and grapes on the trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on
the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees
were lately buzzing?)
Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so
transparent after the rain, and with
wondrous clouds,
Below too, all calm, all vital and
beautiful, and the farm prospers well.
Down in the fields all prospers well,
But now from the fields come father,
come at the daughter's call,
And come to the entry mother, to the
front door come right away.
Fast as she can she hurries, something
ominous, her steps trembling,
She does not tarry to smooth her hair
nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son's writing, yet his
name is sign'd,
O a strange hand writes for our dear
son, O stricken mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes, flashes with
black, she catches the main words
only,
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the
breast, cavalry skirmish, taken
to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.
Ah now the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with
all its cities and farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the
head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.
Grieve not so, dear mother, (the
justgrown daughter speaks through
her sobs,
The little sisters huddle around speechless
and dismay'd,)
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete
will soon be better.
Alas poor boy, he will never be better,
(nor may-be needs to be better,
that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he
is dead already,
The only son is dead.
But the mother needs to be better,
She with thin form presently drest in
black,
By day her meals untouch'd, then at
night fitfully sleeping, often
waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing
with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed,
silent from life escape and
withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear
dead son.
[THE WOUND-DRESSER]
1
An old man bending I come among new
faces,
Years looking backward resuming in
answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young
men and maidens that love me,
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat
the alarum, and urge relentless
war,
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face
droop'd and I resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them,
or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these
furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so
brave? the other was equally
brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest
armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous
what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest?
of curious panics,
Of har'd-fought engagements or sieges
tremendous what deepest
remains?
2
O maidens and young men I love and
that love me,
What you ask of my days those the
strangest and sudden your talking
recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march
cover'd with sweat and dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the
fight, loudly shout in the rush of
successful charge,
Enter the captur'd works—yet lo, like a
swift-running river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not
on soldiers' perils or soldiers'
joys,
(Both I remember well—many the hardships,
few the joys, yet I was
content.)
But in silence, in dreams' projections,
While the world of gain and appearance
and mirth goes on.
So soon what is over forgotten, and
waves wash the imprints off the
sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the
doors, (while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise
and be of strong heart.)
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the
battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the
grass the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or
under the roof'd hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down
each side I return,
To each and all one after another I draw
near, not one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he
carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and
blood, emptied, and fill'd again,
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to
dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp
yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes—
poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this
moment to die for you, if that
would save you.