The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves <br />By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower <br />Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower; <br />The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves <br />Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. <br />Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower! -- <br />The Southern nightingale that hour by hour <br />In its melodious summer madness raves. <br />Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, <br />With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet <br />And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf <br />Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget <br />The awful crime of this distracted land <br />And all our heavy heritage of grief.<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/by-the-potomac/
