MY SOLDIER.
19
MY SOLDIER.
PON a hard-won battle-field, Whose recent blood-stains shock the skies,
By hasty burial half-concealed,
With death in his dear eyes,
My soldier lies.
Oh, thought more sharp than bayonet-thrust,—
Of blood-drops on his silken hair,
Of his white forehead in the dust,
Of his last gasping prayer,
And I not there!
Of blood-drops on his silken hair,
Of his white forehead in the dust,
Of his last gasping prayer,
And I not there!
I know, while his warm life escaped,
And his blue eyes closed shudderingly,
His heart's last fluttering pulses shaped
One yearning wish for me,—
Oh agony!
And his blue eyes closed shudderingly,
His heart's last fluttering pulses shaped
One yearning wish for me,—
Oh agony!
For I, in cruel ignorance,
While yet his last sigh pained the air,
While yet his last sigh pained the air,
