Underneath the autumn sky,
  Haltingly, the lines go by. 
  Ah, would steps were blithe and gay,
  As when first they marched away,
  Smile on lip and curl on brow,—­
  Only white-faced gray-beards now,
  Standing on life’s outer verge,
  E’en the marches sound a dirge.

  Blow, you bugles, play, you fife,
  Rattle, drums, for dearest life. 
  Let the flags wave freely so,
  As the marching legions go,
  Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest,
  This is memory at its best. 
  (Did you notice at your quip,
  That old comrade’s quivering lip?)

  Ah, I see them as they come,
  Stumbling with the rumbling drum;
  But a sight more sad to me
  E’en than these ranks could be
  Was that one with cane upraised
  Who stood by and gazed and gazed,
  Trembling, solemn, lips compressed,
  Longing to be with the rest.

  Did he dream of old alarms,
  As he stood, “presented arms”? 
  Did he think of field and camp
  And the unremitting tramp
  Mile on mile—­the lonely guard
  When he kept his midnight ward? 
  Did he dream of wounds and scars
  In that bitter war of wars?

  What of that?  He stood and stands
  In my memory—­trembling hands,
  Whitened beard and cane and all
  As if waiting for the call
  Once again:  “To arms, my sons,”
  And his ears hear far-off guns,
  Roll of cannon and the tread
  Of the legions of the Dead!

YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW

  Yesterday I held your hand,
  Reverently I pressed it,
  And its gentle yieldingness
  From my soul I blessed it.

  But to-day I sit alone,
  Sad and sore repining;
  Must our gold forever know
  Flames for the refining?

  Yesterday I walked with you,
  Could a day be sweeter? 
  Life was all a lyric song
  Set to tricksy meter.

  Ah, to-day is like a dirge,—­
  Place my arms around you,
  Let me feel the same dear joy
  As when first I found you.

  Let me once retrace my steps,
  From these roads unpleasant,
  Let my heart and mind and soul
  All ignore the present.

  Yesterday the iron seared
  And to-day means sorrow. 
  Pause, my soul, arise, arise,
  Look where gleams the morrow.

THE CHANGE

  Love used to carry a bow, you know,
    But now he carries a taper;
  It is either a length of wax aglow,
    Or a twist of lighted paper.

  I pondered a little about the scamp,
    And then I decided to follow
  His wandering journey to field and camp,
    Up hill, down dale or hollow.

  I dogged the rollicking, gay, young blade
    In every species of weather;
  Till, leading me straight to the home of a maid
    He left us there together.