Silent Thanksgiving

She is standing alone by the window— A woman, faded and old, But the wrinkled face was lovely once, And the silvered hair was gold. As out in the darkness, the snow-flakes Are falling so softly and slow, Her thoughts fly back to the summer of life, And the scenes of long ago. Before the dim eyes, a picture comes, She has seen it again and again; The tears steal over the faded cheeks, And the lips that quiver with pain, For she hears once more the trumpet call And sees the battle array As they march to the hills with gleaming swords— Can she ever forget that day? She has given her boy to the land she loves, How hard it had been to part! And to-night she stands at the window alone, With a new-made grave in her heart. And yet, it’s the day of Thanksgiving— But her child, her darling was slain By the shot and shell of the rebel guns— Can she ever be thankful again? She thinks once more of his fair young face, And the cannon’s murderous roll, While hatred springs in her passionate heart, And bitterness into her soul. Then out of the death-like stillness There comes a battle-cry— The song that led those marching feet To conquer, or to die. “Yes, rally round the flag, boys!” With tears she hears the song, And her thoughts go back to the boys in blue, That army, brave and strong— Then Peace creeps in amid the pain. The dead are as dear as the living, And back of the song is the silence, And back of the silence—Thanksgiving.