and great-grand-sons do not forget your grand-sires,) From fifty Nations and nebulous Nations, compacted, sent oversea to-day, America’s applause, love, memories and good-will.
Interpolation Sounds
(General Philip Sheridan was buried at the Cathedral, Washington, D.C. , August, 1888, with all the pomp, music, and ceremonies of the Roman Catholic service.)
Over and through the burial chant, Organ and solemn service, sermon, bending priests, To me come interpolation sounds not in the show—plainly to me, crowding up the aisle and from the window, Of sudden battle’s hurry and harsh noises—war’s grim game to sight and ear in earnest; The scout call’d up and forward—the general mounted and his aids around him—the new-brought word—the instantaneous order issued; The rifle crack—the cannon thud—the rushing forth of men from their tents; The clank of cavalry—the strange celerity of forming ranks—the slender bugle note; The sound of horses’ hoofs departing—saddles, arms, accoutrements.
To the Sun-Set Breeze
Ah, whispering, something again, unseen, Where late this heated day thou enterest at my window, door, Thou, laving, tempering all, cool-freshing, gently vitalizing Me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with sweat; Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft, companion better than talk, book, art, (Thou hast, O Nature! elements! utterance to my heart beyond the rest—and this is of them,) So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within—thy soothing fingers on my face and hands, Thou, messenger-magical strange bringer to body and spirit of me, (Distances balk’d—occult medicines penetrating me from head to foot,)