'Neath the snow. Nothing living
Is seen in the folds
Of the gleaming white grave-clothes.
No friend under Heaven
There is for the woman,
The wife of the soldier.
Who knows what her thoughts are?
Who cares for her words?
Who is sad for her sorrow?
And where can she bury 180
The insults they cast her?
Perhaps in the woods?--
But the woods are all withered!
Perhaps in the meadows?--
The meadows are frozen!
The swift little stream?--
But its waters are sleeping!
No,--carry them with you
To hide in your grave!"

* * * * *

"My husband is gone; 190
There is no one to shield me.
Hark, hark! There's the drum!
And the soldiers are coming!
They halt;--they are forming
A line in the market.
'Attention!' There's Philip!
There's Philip! I see him!