He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle "Ah! Mary, good-by! "
And the lifeblood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead
The picket s off duty forever.
MARIE RAVENEL DE LA COSTE
[Marie Ravenel de la Coste was born of French parents in Savannah, Georgia, where the greater part of her early life was spent. Her life has been devoted to teaching French, and the writing of poetry has been merely an incidental matter with her. Owing to her reticence about herself, it is not possible to give fuller biographical details.]
SOMEBODY S DARLING
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody s darling was borne one day. Somebody s darling, so young and brave, Wearing still on his pale, sweet face Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave The lingering light of his boyhood s grace.
