Poems (Prescott)/Soldier's Graves

by Mary Newmarch Prescott

SOLDIERS' GRAVES

I

About tall headstones where the grass growing,
 The flowers of spring are fair,—
Just the handful the month is blowing,
 Not a red rose among them all,
 Only the wild-flowers fine and small,
  Which faithful hands brought there.

Over the nameless graves that are lying
 Under the southern sun,
Perhaps no tender soul with sighing
 Drops leaf or blossom or spray;
 But Nature herself makes holiday,
  Remembering every one.

II

O blossoming-time, make no delay
Paint the swift hours the while they stay,
Let catkins of the willow lead
The way for each fair flowering weed,
The strange blooms of the cornel-tree
The scarlet of the maple key,
Let leaf and bud and grass betray
That April brightens into May!
With flags the watery ways enrich,
Plant the great trillium in its niche,
Deep in the tangled woods awhile
Let the pale may-flower shyly smile.
Hasten from out your beds of mould
O sweet spring blossoms with your gold,
And lend your sweetness and your bloom
To gild the shadow of the tomb.

III

The wind-flower blossomed long ago,
 The crocus could not wait,
The homely doorstone rose is slow,
 The milk-white stock is late.

Then bring the wreaths of cherry blooms
 The eyebright's tender shine,
The purple lilac's perfumed plumes,
 And the splendor of columbine.

Bring violets for the graves that grow
 Green with the growing years,
Bring all the fragrant buds that blow
 Wet with a nation's tears.