Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By John JamesPiatt600 The Mower in Ohio
T
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man’s breath to-day.
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear:
They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep;
Or if something brings a rumor home of the cannon so far from me:
Will tell them what I meant when first I had my mowers go!
Whose shadow can darken my door again, and lighten my heart for me.
William was better at shorter heats, but Jo in the long run led.
When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head in Tennessee.
(The mowing was over already, although the only mower was I):
We were proud and cried to see the flag that wrapt his coffin around;
It seemed his country claimed him then—as well as his mother—her son.
And only the bees are broad at work with me in the clover here.
Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding now their Onward to Richmond there.
It may be I slept a minute, too, or wavered into a dream.
Tramping a steady tramp as of old, with the strength in their arms unspent;
Of music that seems, a part of themselves, to rise and fall with their feet;
Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed the stone—
With a shine of light in their faces at once, and—surely I must have dreamed!
There were three in my vision—remember, old man: and what if Joseph were dead!
Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is ahead or afoot!
I must stay at home as long as I can, making, myself, the hay.
But first I ’ll drink at the spring below, and whet again my scythe.