UNKNOWN to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe To greet the pure moon and the April showers. I only know, I only care to know, You died for me—for me and country bled; A thousand springs and wild December snow Will weep for one of all the Southern Dead. The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, Above the relics of a vanquished land, And light the torch of sanctifying fires. Your bed of honor has a rosy cope, To shimmer back the tributary stars; And every petal glistens with a hope, When Love has blossomed in the disk of Mars. Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes Bosomed amid th' archangelic choir, Not with the grumble of impetuous drum, Deep'ning the chorus of embattled ire. Above you shall the oak and cedar fling Their giant plumage and protecting shade, For you the song-bird pause upon its wing And warble requiem ever undismayed. Farewell! And, if your spirit wander near To kiss this plaint of unaspiring art— Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere, As the libretto of a maiden's heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HABIT OF PERFECTION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS PARADISE LOST: BOOK 1 by JOHN MILTON AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS; SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH A COWBOY TOAST by JAMES BARTON ADAMS LOVE'S BLINDNESS by ALFRED AUSTIN CORRESPONDENCES by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE MY DEMAND by MARION L. BERTRAND WRITTEN ON A GLOOMY DAY, IN SICKNESS. THACKWOOD, 4TH JUNE, 1786 by SUSANNA BLAMIRE |