Over Their Graves
by
Henry Jerome Stockard (1858-1914) |
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|
OVER their graves rang once the bugle's call,
The
searching shrapnel and the crashing ball;
The shriek, the
shock of battle, and the neigh
Of horse; the cries of
anguish and dismay;
And the loud cannon's thunders that
appall.
Now through the years the brown pine-needles
fall,
The vines run riot by the old stone wall,
By
hedge, by meadow streamlet, far away,
Over their graves.
We love our dead where'er so held in thrall.
Than
they no Greek more bravely died, nor Gaul�
A love that 's
deathless!�but they look to-day
With no reproaches on us
when we say,
"Come, let us clasp your hands, we 're
brothers all,
Over their graves!" |
By Henry Jerome Stockard (1858-1914)
Listed March 18, 2013 |
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