Of her husband, and finds ... it is living, and warm!


III.

Ye, who by the couches of languishing ones,
Have watched through the rising and setting of suns,--
Who, silent, behind the close curtain, withdrawn,
Scarce know that the current of being sweeps on,--
To whom outer life is unreal, untrue,
A world with whose moils ye have nothing to do;
Who feel that the day, with its multiform rounds,
Is full of discordant, impertinent sounds,--
Who speak in low whispers, and stealthily tread,
As if a faint footfall were something to dread,--
Who find all existence,--its gladness, its gloom,--
Enclosed by the walls of that limited room,--
Ye only can measure the sleepless unrest
That lies like a night-mare on Alice's breast.

Days come and days go, and she watches the strife
So evenly balanced, 'twixt death and 'twixt life;
Thanks God he still breathes, as each evening takes wing,
And dares not to think what the morrow may bring.

In the lone, ghostly midnight, he raves as he lies,
With death's ashen pallidness dimming his eyes:
He shouts the sharp war-cry,--he rallies his men,--
He is on the red field of Manassas again.