How solemn as one by one,

As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I stand,

As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the masks

(As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend, whoever you are),

How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks, and to you!

I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul,

O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,

Nor the bayonet stab what you really are;

The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best,

Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill,

Nor the bayonet stab O friend.

[Pg 51]

[Pg 51]

SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE

(Washington City, 1865)

Spirit whose work is done—spirit of dreadful hours!

Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets;

Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts (yet onward ever unfaltering pressing),

Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene—electric spirit,

That with muttering voice through the war now closed, like a tireless phantom flitted,

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