But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp
Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
And stealthily followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover, and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim:
Though the dew was on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late:
He went for the cows when the work was done
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.
