COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER

Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy
    dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the
     moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the
     trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain,
     and with wondrous clouds,
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm
     prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well,
But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's
     call,
And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right
     away.

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps
     trembling,
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd,

O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's
     soul!
All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the
     main words only,
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry
     skirmish, taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah now the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and
     farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks
     through her sobs,
The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,)
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to
     be better, that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,
The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better,
She with thin form presently drest in black,
By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping,
     often walking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep
     longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape
     and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

1865 1867

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that
     day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a
     look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you
     lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made
     my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body
    son of responding kisses, (never again on earth
     responding,)
Bared your face in the stralight, curious the scene, cool blew
    the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the
     battlefield spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent
     night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I
     gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning
     my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade —
not a tear, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my
     soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward
     stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was
     your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we
     shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn
     appear'd,
My comrade