Decoration
by Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911) |
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MID the flower-wreathed tombs I stand
Bearing lilies
in my hand.
Comrades! in what soldier-grave
Sleeps the
bravest of the brave?
Is it he who sank to rest
With his colors round his breast?
Friendship makes his
tomb a shrine;
Garlands veil it: ask not mine.
One
low grave, yon trees beneath,
Bears no roses, wears no
wreath;
Yet no heart more high and warm
Ever dared the
battle-storm,
Never gleamed a prouder eye
In the
front of victory,
Never foot had firmer tread
On the
field where hope lay dead,
Then are hid within this
tomb,
Where the untended grasses bloom,
And no stone,
with feigned distress,
Mocks the sacred loneliness.
Youth and beauty, dauntless will,
Dreams that life
could ne'er fulfil,
Here lie buried; here in peace
Wrongs and woes have found release.
Turning from my
comrades' eyes,
Kneeling where a woman lies,
I strew
lilies on the grave
Of the bravest of the brave. |
By Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)
Listed December 23, 2012 |
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