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DECORATION DAY.
The last sad note has passed away,
The bugle's moan in distance dies;
Alone the wailing wind of May
Amid her tender verdure sighs.
The bugle's moan in distance dies;
Alone the wailing wind of May
Amid her tender verdure sighs.
Where here and there the banners wave,
A little heap of fading flowers
Bedecks some valiant soldier's grave,
Already greened with sun and showers.
A little heap of fading flowers
Bedecks some valiant soldier's grave,
Already greened with sun and showers.
As well they sleep through wintry snows
As through the summer's fragrant morn;
Their hands have picked the only rose
That grows on earth without a thorn.
As through the summer's fragrant morn;
Their hands have picked the only rose
That grows on earth without a thorn.
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But we who still in wars abide,
Who lose their strength and weep their loss,
Assuage our grief and vaunt our pride
With floral wreath and blooming cross.
Who lose their strength and weep their loss,
Assuage our grief and vaunt our pride
With floral wreath and blooming cross.
One tale they tell of sharp regret
Of faithful memory, fond despair,
Of eyes with tears still streaming wet,
And agonies of lonely prayer.
Of faithful memory, fond despair,
Of eyes with tears still streaming wet,
And agonies of lonely prayer.
Is war then worth the woe it brings,
The broken heart, the blossomed grave?
Ah! high in heaven above me rings
The shout of freedom—from a slave.
The broken heart, the blossomed grave?
Ah! high in heaven above me rings
The shout of freedom—from a slave.
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