Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river lane;
One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Along by the willows and over the hill He patiently followed their sober pace--The merry whistle for once was still And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy, and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But, after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then have the lanes been white And the orchards sweet with apple bloom, And now when the cows came back at night The feeble father drove them home;
For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when his work was done, But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one.
Brindle and Ebony, Speckle and Bess, Tossing their horns in the evening wind, Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue, And worn and pale through its crisped hair Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn And yield their dead to life again, And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, For the hearts must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.
