From mother, wife and sister dear!
The wounds grow worse from year
And can't be healed.
A wife, she lisped the name of one
She deeply mourned, and dearly loved;
Whose footsteps she would hear no more,
Whose spirit was in heaven above.
And loving sisters, when they meet,
And see the vacant chairs of two,
Whose looks are bright as when they left__
'Twas brother John and Lew!
The grass grows green above their graves,
Each year its freshness will unfold__
And this is why loved ones lament,
For grief so deep will ne'er grow old.
The winds will waft their fragrance by,
But to hearts bereft by a cruel war,
Sad, sad are the mem'ries they will waft,
As we think of the fields of human gore.
Yes, We heard a mother call,
'Twas in her silent midnight dream,
For four whose forms had turned to dust,
Beside the onward rushing stream.
Some one had died; they wondered why!
The bell had tolled just forty-three,
Oh! why should death claim such a one,
Beloved by all, and young as she!
But some one heard her call the names
Of four she mourned and dearly loved;
Then wonder why that mother fled,
And soared to rest with them above.
__Anna A. Wright.
More Truth Than Poetry
Anna A. Wright
(Chicago: W. S. Battis & Co. 1884)