A Grave
1.
As toilsome I wandered Virginia’s woods,
To the music of rustling leaves kicked by my feet—for ’twas autumn—
I marked at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier;
Mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat—easily all could I
understand;
The halt of a mid-day hour—when, Up! no time to lose! Yet this sign left
On a tablet scrawled and nailed on the tree by the grave,
Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.
2.
Long, long I muse,—then on my way go wandering,
Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life.
Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt,—alone, or in the
crowded street,—
Comes before me the unknown soldier’s grave, comes the inscription rude in
Virginia’s woods,
Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.