BETWEEN THE GRAVES.MAY 30.
Where blood once quenched the camp-fire's brand,On every sod throughout the land The silver showers slip softly down;On every sod some growing stem Lifts to the light a shining crown.
For underneath her bending blue,With leaf and sunshine, moon and dew, Glad nature gilds the graveside gloom,Nor asks what passions stirred the dust Through which her pulses spring to bloom.
While from the gardens of the South,Like blessings blown from some warm mouth, The wooing wind steals all day long,Steals lingeringly from grave to grave With breath of blossom, breath of song.
