“
Now reading
A Bugler, Dying
to Mr. A. T.
Sir, all the field lies mown
Now that the loud machines
Are stopped, than grass cut down
Less murmurous.
Such peace
Leaves generals alone
To pace their open grave
Naming the numberless
Whose battle braced the brave
And hearing them converse
When twilight intervenes,
Rapt garlands of the dead
On the air faint and terse
To rattle a vaulted head
And cleanse the spendthrift pod,
Milkweed and goldenrod,
Clover and timothy -
Enfranchised poverty
First learned at mother's knee.
And the spilled seed is God.