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An Old Battle Field

From the Newark Evening Star, August 27, 1914. By Frank L. Stanton.

The softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;
And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.

But still the thought; somewhere, upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whippoorwills,
Sad, wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
And when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of a battle and an unmarked grave.

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