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A Requiem
Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows
fly low
O'er the field in clouded days,
The
forest-field of Shiloh -
Over the field where April
rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain,
Through the pauses of the night -
That followed the
Sunday fight
Around the church of Shiloh, -
The
church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to
many a parting groan
And natural prayer
Of dying
foemen mingled there -
Foemen at morn, but friends at
eve -
Fame or country least their care:
(What like
a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed
at Shiloh.
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