’Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad—­too bad,
The finest young man, by far, in this town;
Such are the offerings we give to war,
Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.’

Neither did notice her faltering step;
Neither gave heed to her quivering hand,
That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door,
And spilled the cider upon the stand.

But the father dreamed, as he slept that night,
That his darling had met some fearful woe;
And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans,
And her slow steps pacing to and fro.

II.

’Twas an April day, in the balmy spring,
The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep,
The windows were open to sun and breeze,
The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.

The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves
Softly over the old brown roof,
And the sunshine, red with savory smoke,
Fell graciously through their emerald woof.

Sounds—­spring sounds—­which the country yields: 
Voices of laborers, lowing of herds,
The caw of the crow, the swollen brook’s roar,
The sportsman’s gun, and the twitter of birds,

Melted like dim dreams into the air;
’Twas the azure shadow of summer,
Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood,
And brought new gladness to eye and ear.

But a face looks out to the purple hills,
A wasted face that is full of woe,
Wan yet calm, like a summer moon
That has lost the round of its fullest glow.

The smooth brown braids still wreathe her head;
Her simple garments are full of grace,
As if, with color and taste, she fain
Would ward off eyes from her paling face.

’Tis a morning hour, but the work is done;
The house so peacefully bright within,
And the wild-wood leaves on the mantel-shelf
Tell how busy her feet have been.

She sits by the window and watches a cloud
Fading away in the hazy sky;
And ‘Like that cloud,’ she says in heart,
‘When summer is over, I too shall die.’

The door-yard gate swings to with a clang,
She must not sadden her father so;
She springs to her feet with a merrier air,
And pinches her face to make it glow.

But ah! no need; for a ruddier red
Than pinches can bring floods brow and cheek;
She stands transfixed by a mighty joy;
For millions of worlds she can not speak.

Frank Wilson gathers her close to his heart,
With brightening glance, he reads that glow,
And draws from the wells of her joy-lit eyes
The secret he long has yearned to know.

’Frank Wilson! living and strong and well;
Were you not killed by the rebels? say!’
’Thank God!  I was not.  ’Twas another man—­
There were two Frank Wilsons in Company K.’

The one church-bell in the distant town
Chimes softly forth for twelve o’clock;
Another clang of the door-yard gate,
A sudden hush in the tender talk.