Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Kate PutnamOsgood868 Driving Home the Cows
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He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
He never could let his youngest go:
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet
And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son’s again.
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:
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass—
But who was it following close behind?
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb:
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.