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.