September 21, 1870 [1]

Speak low, speak little; who may sing
    While yonder cannon-thunders boom?
Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring:
    Nor 'pipe amid the crack of doom.'

And yet - the pines sing overhead,
    The robins by the alder-pool,
The bees about the garden-bed,
    The children dancing home from school.

And ever at the loom of Birth
    The mighty Mother weaves and sings:
She weaves - fresh robes for mangled earth;
    She sings - fresh hopes for desperate things.

And thou, too:    if through Nature's calm
    Some strain of music touch thine ears,
Accept and share that soothing balm,
    And sing, though choked with pitying tears.

Eversley, 1870.