Today, I feature another selection from this book, this one from pages 63 and 64, entitled "The Last Photograph, April 9, 1865."
The weariness of war
Had made its withering advance
Hour after hour
All throughout those four years
Which bowed him as he grew,
And turned the error of his fears
Into the lasting true.
It was like a runnelled hill,
His face, and in his eyes
Lngered all the dying, till
Life seemed a stale surrise.
And then war's end, at last in view,
Erased death from his face,
And those who saw him lived anew,
And shared his autumn peace,
And thought how Indian Summer dweled
Hazy after frost,
And how the bounty of its yield