The flags of war like storm birds fly, <br />The charging trumpets blow; <br />Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, <br />No earthquake strives below. <br /> <br />And, calm and patient, Nature keeps <br />Her ancient promises well, <br />Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps, <br />The battle's breath of hell. <br /> <br />And still she walks in golden hours, <br />Through harvest-happy farms, <br />And still she wears her fruits and flowers <br />Like jewels on her arms. <br /> <br />What means the gladness of the plain, <br />This joy of eve and morn, <br />The mirth that shakes the bread of grain <br />And yellow locks of corn? <br /> <br />Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, <br />And hearts with hate are hot; <br />But even-paced come round the years, <br />And nature changes not. <br /> <br />She meets with smiles our bitter grief, <br />With songs our groans of pain; <br />She mocks with tints of flowers and leaf, <br />The war-field's crimson stain. <br /> <br />Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear <br />Her sweet thanksgiving psalm; <br />Too near to God for doubt or fear, <br />She shares the eternal calm. <br /> <br />She knows the seed lies safe below <br />The fires that blast and burn; <br />For all the tears of blood we sow <br />She waits the rich return. <br /> <br />She sees with clearer eye than ours <br />The good of suffering born, <br />The hearts that blossom like her flowers <br />And ripen like her corn. <br /> <br />Oh, give to us, in times like these, <br />The vision of her eyes; <br />And make her fields and fruited trees <br />Our golden prophecies. <br /> <br />Oh, give to us her finer ear; <br />Above this stormy din, <br />We, too, would hear the bells of cheer <br />Ring peace and freedom in.<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-battle-autumn-of-1862/
