My lank Abe stands commanding where coalblack shadows spar; Heavy Chaos covers us over, a blanket without stars-- War is folding over my heart, and over all my days; War is wearing our beautiful country away. Men in thousands are marching, grey and shadowy, Their roiling horses thundering, thundering from afar. At silky midnight the medium returns, with crystal ball And long tin trumpet floating ghostly in the gaslit pall; And Willie's lisping voice buzzing there--to the life! Each dim word returns to my breast like a knife, Each dim dawn returns to the sound of the marchers' marshal fifes. The coffin that carried my heart away was waxed and small. Battleside at noon in our folding chairs, we watch the long lines Approach and cross, blue and grey, threads on a loom divine; Threads red and mud soon enough, soon enough. Always now my wronged, longing heart is crying out: enough! Always it is Willie I see atop the high chargers, out riding in the rough; Always I hear his hollow voice arising--in every Rebel yell.