By the jamb of a door leans.

_Grieve not so, dear mother_, (the just-grown daughter speaks through
her sobs,
The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,)
_See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better._

Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be
better, that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,
The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better,
She with thin form presently drest in black,
By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often
waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and
withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.



VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT.


Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall
never forget,