William Winter

After All

The apples are ripe in the orchard,
  The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
  In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
  Sits pale in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
  Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
  A fair young head is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
  Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
  The faltering echoes come
Of the flying blast of trumpet
  And the rattling roll of drum.

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
  "The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country
  And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows,
  The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
  The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
  The cottage is dark and still;
There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
  And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman
  By the cold hearth sits alone;
And the old clock in the corner
  Ticks on with a steady drone.