The World Was Husht
The world was husht, the moon above
Sailed thro’ ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
Thus I whispered lowly,—
“Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
“The field I seek to-morrow
“Is one where man hath fame to reap,
“And woman gleans but sorrow.”
“Let battle’s field be what it may.
Thus spoke a voice replying,
“Think not thy love, while thou’rt away,
“Will sit here idly sighing.
“No—woman’s soul, if not for fame,
“For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
A plumed and armed stranger.
A stranger? No; ’twas she, the maid,
Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom’s fight,
That blessed morning found us;
In Victory’s light we stood ere night,
And Love the morrow crowned us!