TheWizard's HomePage

Your letter, lady, came to late,
For Heaven had claimed its own.
Ah, sudden change -- from army rats
Unto the great white throne!
And yet I think he would have stayed
to live for his disdain,
Could he have read your careless words,
Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait
Through many a weary hour,
That oĆer his simple soldier faith
Not even death had power.
And you -- did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though among there shadowy throng
His spirit had a peer.

I wish that you were by him now
To draw the sheet aside,
And see how pure a look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave him
As were the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.

ôHer love, he said, could change for me
The winters cold to spring.
Ah, trust of fickle maidens love,
You are a bitter thing!
For when these valleys bright in May
Once more with blossoms wave,
The southern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pain to bear,
For him who kissed unto the last
Your lock of redden hair.
I did not put it where he said, For when the angels come
I would not have them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.

Ive seen your letter and I know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that noble heart of his,
And gained it -- cruel thought!
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
for some worthless tramp:
What manly bosoms beat for them
In follys falsest scamp.

You shall not pity him for now
His sorrow has an end,
Yet wish that you could stand with me,
Beside my fallen friend.
And I forgive you for his sake
As he -- if it be given --
May even be pleading grace for you
Before the court of Heaven

Tonight the cold wind whistles by
As I my vigil keep
Within the army dead house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A plastic bag coffin holds his form,
Yet death exalts his face
And I would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.

Tonight your home may shine with light
And ring with merry song,
And you be smiling as your soul
Had done no deadly wrong.
Your hand so fair that none would think
It penned these words of pain!
Your skin so white -- pray God, your heart
Were half as free from stain.

Id rather be my comrade dead,
Than you in life supreme:
for yours the sinners walking dread
and his the martyrs dream.
Whom serve we in this life we serve
In that which is to come:
He chose his way, you yours; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.