SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 {325}
Reading edition
SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 {325}
Speak low, speak little; who may sing While yonder cannon-thunders boom? Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring: Nor ‘pipe amid the crack of doom.’
And yet—the pines sing overhead, The robins by the alder-pool, The bees about the garden-bed, The children dancing home from school.
And ever at the loom of Birth The mighty Mother weaves and sings: She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth; She sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.
And thou, too: if through Nature’s calm Some strain of music touch thine ears, Accept and share that soothing balm, And sing, though choked with pitying tears.
Eversley, 1870.