Page:Poems Blake.djvu/136

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THE PICKET.
Slow across the dull Potomac fades the dim November light,
And the darkness, like a mantle, folds the tented field from sight;
In the shadowed wood beside me breaks the wind with quiv'ring moan,
      Floating, sighing,
      Falling, dying,
    As I keep my watch alone.

Forward, backward, stern and fearless, till the moonbeam's silver ray
Breaks in many a gleaming arrow from my bayonet's point away;
So I pace the picket lonely, while apart from mortal sight
      Watch I'm keeping
      With the sleeping
    Loved ones far away to-night.