Wounded

It was in August that they brought her news Of his bad wounds; the leg that he must lose. And August passed, and when October raised Red rebel standards on the hills that blazed, They brought a haggard wreck; she scarce knew whose, Until they told her, standing stunned and dazed.

A shattered shadow of the stalwart lad, The five-months husband, whom his country had Enlisted, strong for war; returning this, Whose broken countenance she feared to kiss, While health’s remembrance stood beside him sad, And grieved for that which was no longer his.

They brought him on a litter; and the day Was bright and beautiful. It seemed that May In woodland rambles had forgot her path Of season, and, disrobing for a bath, By the autumnal waters of some bay, With her white nakedness had conquered Wrath.

Far otherwise she wished it: wind and rain; The sky, one gray commiserative pain; Sleet, and the stormy drift of frantic leaves; To match the misery that each perceives Aches in her hand-clutched bosom, and is plain In eyes and mouth and all her form that grieves.

Theirs, a mute meeting of the lips; she stooped And kissed him once: one long, dark side-lock drooped And brushed against the bandage of his breast; With feeble hands he held it and caressed; Then all his happiness in one look grouped, Saying, “Now I am home, I crave but rest.”

Once it was love! but then the battle killed All that sweet nonsense of his youth, and filled His heart with sterner passion.--Ah, well! peace Must balm its pain with patience; whose surcease Means reconcilement; e’en as God hath willed, With war or peace who shapes His ends at ease.--

What else for these but, where their mortal lot Of weak existence drags rent ends, to knot The frail unravel up!--while love (afraid Time will increase the burthen on it laid), Seeks consolation, that consoleth not, In toil and prayer, waiting what none evade.