Driving Home the Cows

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grassHe turned them into the river lane;One after another he let them pass,Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows and over the hill,He patiently followed their sober pace;The merry whistle for once was still,And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had saidHe never could let his youngest go:Two already were lying dead,Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,Over his shoulder he slung his gun,And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,With resolute heart and purpose grim:Though the dew was on his hurrying feet,And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;And now, when the cows came back at night,The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farmThat three were lying where two had lain;And the old man’s tremulous, palsied armCould never lean on a son’s again.

The summer day grew cool and late:He went for the cows when the work was done;But down the lane, as he opened the gate,He saw them coming one by one:

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,Shaking their horns in the evening wind;Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle airThe empty sleeve of army blue;And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,Looked out a face that the father knew.

For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn,And yield their dead unto life again;And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn,In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb,And under the silent evening skiesTogether they followed the cattle home.