Night after the Battle.
A boy—ah, yes, he was little more—slept in a death-trance there,
So near that his rigid fingers twined a lock of my matted hair;
And one, in the form of a manhood's prime, threw his strong arm over my breast;
It thrilled me once with its power of pain, then crushed with its weight of rest;
And I heard, in the silence, the low drip, drip, of a heart that was weeping near,
And struggled—but vainly—to stir my lip, and pray for a deafened ear.
So near that his rigid fingers twined a lock of my matted hair;
And one, in the form of a manhood's prime, threw his strong arm over my breast;
It thrilled me once with its power of pain, then crushed with its weight of rest;
And I heard, in the silence, the low drip, drip, of a heart that was weeping near,
And struggled—but vainly—to stir my lip, and pray for a deafened ear.
Oh! ye who waltz with the jeweled night to pleasure's quick music-beat,
And find the day where its fingers white strew blossoms around your feet,
Ye never can make your moments reach, by eking them out for years,
A power of expression to meet the speech of a night like that appears:
I know that the strong, deep pulse of Time quietly, steadily throbs,
Though its breath is shortened to laughter's trills, or drawn to the length of sobs;
And find the day where its fingers white strew blossoms around your feet,
Ye never can make your moments reach, by eking them out for years,
A power of expression to meet the speech of a night like that appears:
I know that the strong, deep pulse of Time quietly, steadily throbs,
Though its breath is shortened to laughter's trills, or drawn to the length of sobs;
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