From the Evening Star, September 27, 1914. By Philander Johnson.
The twilight softly lingers down to Pohick on the Crick;
The fields are proudly wavin’ where the golden grain grows thick,
An’ the moon that slowly rises sheds a soft, mysterious glow
Across the homes that we-all folks have loved since long ago.
We’ve had our share of sorrows such as fall to human kind,
But we think of present duty, an’ the past is left behind,
Exceptin’ when we pause to rest an’ memory songs resound,
Like faint an’ distant echoes, as the shadows gather ‘round.
We know that strangers sometimes smile, while passin’ on their way,
At the quaint, old-fashioned blossoms in their generous array.
We know the moss has gathered through the uneventful years
Around the churchyard stones that have been moistened with our tears,
But the sound of strife an’ hatred has been silent for so long
That the weak have learned to look with trustful eyes upon the strong.
We’re thankful, as we hear of deeds that make our hearts turn sick,
The Path of Glory doesn’t lead through Pohick on the Crick.