Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps Knitted some stocking-a dozen nearly; Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps; Stood at fair tables and peddled traps Quite at a profit. The "shoulder-straps" Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you! really? Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till my pitying angel one day sent Here at our door in the bright June weather. None of your dandy warriors they, Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon or lace or bow knot: And I opened the window, and leaning there, I felt in their presence the free winds blowing; My neck and shoulders and arms were bareI did not dream that they might think me fair, But I had some flowers that night in my hair, And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. And I looked from the window along the line, And a dark face grew from the darkening column, VOL. I. D And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer, And then it was over, and high and clear My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. And I leaned from my window and watched my rose Tossed on the waves of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glows, Borne from below by an impulse solemn. I did not go as a nurse to the war- So I didn't go to the hospital either. You smile, O poet, and what do you? You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; An act, a gesture, a face-who knows?— Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom the verse that And down it flies like my red, red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, grows, And think that your duty is done-now don't you? I know your answer. I'm not yet through. Look at this photograph-" In the Trenches!" That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches Nothing except that the sun paints true, And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. Come to your heart once more, as mine did. An Arctic Uision. WHERE the short-legged Esquimaux And the playful Polar bear Where by day they track the ermine, To the isles of Kodiac. Let the stately Polar bears And the walrus, in his glee, While the bold sea-unicorn Calmly takes an extra horn; Know you not what fate awaits you, On the spot where Eugene Sue Leaning on his icy hammer |