By Herman Melville
One noonday, at my window in the town,
I saw a sight–saddest that eyes can see–
Young soldiers marching lustily
Unto the wars,
With fifes, and flags in mouthed pageantry;
While all the porches, walks, and doors
Were rich with ladies cheering royally.
They moved like June morning on the wave,
Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
(It was a breezy summer time),
Life throbbed so strong,
How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime
Would come to thin their shining throng?
Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.
Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
Some marching feet
Found pause last by cliffs Potomac cleft;
Wakeful I mused, while in the street
Far footfalls died away till none were left.