Shiloh

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the fields in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh --

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

Through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh --

The church, so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there --

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve --

Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.