The softest whisperings of the scented South, <br />And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth; <br /> <br />And, where the thunders of the fight were born, <br />The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn; <br /> <br />With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, <br />And blue skies bending over love and home. <br /> <br />But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills, <br />Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills, <br /> <br />Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat <br />For the loved sound of unreturning feet, <br /> <br />And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave, <br />Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!<br /><br />Frank Lebby Stanton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-old-battle-field/
