Poems (Trask)/In Mourning

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

IN MOURNING.

You say I must be calm, and try to bear
 This chastisement as a brave woman should,
Content, nay, prideful, that I've yielded up
 The life of my life for my country's good.

I must be calm,—well, stone is not more calm!
 I do not wring my hands, or beat my breast;
My eyes are dry; I've not a tear to shed,—
 My fretful weeping might disturb his rest.

Sighs come not from my lips; feeling is dead;
 Only a dull endurance reigns within,—
Disturbed, at times, by longings wild and vague
 To cast off life, it is so cold and grim.

An open grave lies ever at my feet,
 Whether I wake, or toss in restless sleep;
I smell the damp fresh mould, and hear the spade
 Go crunching down, to make it dark and deep.

I see him lying by its ghastly brink;
 The crimson banner with its bars of white,
Bought with his life, folding his quiet breast,
 And gleaming blood-red through the moonlit night.

He looked his last upon the fair blue sky,
 Clouded with smoke of battle's lurid breath;
Heaved his last sigh where greedy cannon mouths
 Had drank all the sweet air, and left but death.

No gentle hands to touch his clammy brow,
 No tender kisses on his silent lips,
No voice of love to soothe his failing ear,
 No kiss to close his eyes in death's eclipse.

Leave me alone! words are of little worth
 That fall on deafened ears! leave me alone!
Your comfortings mean well: take thanks, and go!
 What use to waste your breath upon a stone?