SEPTEMBER 21, 1870

Speak low, speak little; who may sing

While yonder cannon-thunders boom?

Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring:

Nor‘ pipe amid the crack of doom.’

And yet — the pines sing overhead,

The robins by the alder-pool,

The bees about the garden-bed,

The children dancing home from school.

And ever at the loom of Birth

The mighty Mother weaves and sings:

She weaves — fresh robes for mangled earth;

She sings — fresh hopes for desperate things.

And thou, too: if through Nature's calm

Some strain of music touch thine ears,

Accept and share that soothing balm,

And sing, though choked with pitying tears.