Waiting for News — Lucy Larcom

AT the corner of the lane,Where we stood this time last year,Droops and waves the ripening grain;Sounds the meadow-lark's refrain,Just as sad and clear.

Cornel-trees let blossoms fallIn a white shower at my feet;Thick viburnums hide the wall;And behind, the bush-bird's callBubbles, summery-sweet,

Now, as then, o'er purple bloomsVeiled by meadow-grasses rare;Bubbles through the coppice glooms;Joins the sweetbrier's late perfumesWandering through the air.

All returns;—your word, your look,As we stood where now I stand:—With a dread I could not brook,Well I knew my faint voice shook,While you held my hand.

Firm you always were, and thenHigh resolve had made you strong.Could I bid you linger, whenFreedom called aloud for menTo requite her wrong?

Southrons threw their gauntlet-lieIn the face of God and Truth."Go, for love's sake!" was my cry;"Were not Truth more dear than I,Thou wert naught, in sooth!"

And you went. The whole year through,I have felt war's thunder-quakeRend me hour by hour anew:Yet I would not call for you,Though my heart should break.

Only, standing here to-day,With the sweetbrier's wandering breath,And the smell of new-mown hayIn the air, "This life," I say,"Strikes deep root in death."

Death! while here I pass the hours,Blood is rising round your feet:I sit ankle-deep in flowers:On you, red shot falls in showers,Through the battle-heat.

What if there I saw you lie,Where the grasses nod and blow,With your forehead to the sky,And your wounds—O God! that I,—That I bade you go!

Yet, were that to say once more,"Go," I'd say, "at any cost!"Many a heart has bled before.God his heroes will restore;No great soul is lost

And the strife that rages soBurns out meanness from the land.Men must fall, and blood must flow,That our Plants of Honor growUnto stature grand.

Ay, to-day it seems to me,That yon little straggling roseFed by War's red springs must be:All of fair and good I see,Out of anguish grows.

Vines that shade the cottage-home;Laurels for the warrior's wreath;Lilies of white peace, that bloomAfter battle's lurid gloom; —All are nursed by death.

By our bond, I 'm close to-dayAs your sword is, to your side.If your breath stops in the fray,Watchers from above will say,Two for freedom died.

Still I loiter in the lane,—If I might but send you, dear,Sweetbrier scents, the lark's refrain,They would soothe the battle-pain;You should feel me near:

And the fresh thought of these fieldsWith new strength would nerve your arm.Fearlessly his sword he wields,Whose whole risk is what it shields,—Home-love, pure and warm.

And you ventured this; you gaveFreely all your wealth of life,That the Stars and Stripes might waveNevermore above a slave.Cheerfully your wife

Climbs with you great Freedom's pyre,—Not as Hindoo widows die.We to life in Life aspire:Love's last height is our desire;Lo! we tread the sky!

Treading with a joyful scornSelfish joy beneath our feet:In a nation's hope new-born,In a free world's radiant morn,Breathing bliss complete.

Hark! a jubilee of bellsPealing through the sunset light,Shaking out fresh clover-smells!Parting day to-morrow tells,Victory 's in sight.

Hark, again! the long, shrill blastEager throngs are waiting for.Is it Death's train, sweeping past?Homeward, Heart! Pain cannot last.What news from the war?