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My Soldier-Son.
Oh mocking spring! whose sunny smile
Restores the lives of little worth,
But weak and powerless proves the while
To raise the noblest ones of earth.
Oh joyous birds, whose hopeful strains
Make vocal all the air with glee,
Win our departed back again,
Or all your songs are mockery.
Restores the lives of little worth,
But weak and powerless proves the while
To raise the noblest ones of earth.
Oh joyous birds, whose hopeful strains
Make vocal all the air with glee,
Win our departed back again,
Or all your songs are mockery.
But yet shall come a glorious spring,
Foretold by sacred pitying grace,
Rich with the destinies it brings
For the long-severed of our race—
When triumph-shouts and angel-strains
Proclaim the last great victory won—
In that blest time we'll meet again,
To part no more, my soldier-son.
Foretold by sacred pitying grace,
Rich with the destinies it brings
For the long-severed of our race—
When triumph-shouts and angel-strains
Proclaim the last great victory won—
In that blest time we'll meet again,
To part no more, my soldier-son.
Glen-Echo Home, May, 1863.
