Herman Melville

Shiloh, A Requiem

SKIMMING lightly, wheeling still,
    The swallows fly low 
Over the fields in clouded days,
    The forest-field of Shiloh-- 
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched one stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
    Around the church of Shiloh-- 
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
       And natural prayer 
    Of dying foemen mingled there-- 
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve--
    Fame or country least their care: 
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
    But now they lie low, 
While over them the swallows skim,
    And all is hushed at Shiloh.