Warriors o’ercoming and o’ercome,
    Alike contented,
Have marched now to the last far drum,
    Praised, unlamented.

Bugle and battle-cry are still,
    The long strife’s over;
Oh, that with them I had fought my fill
    And found like cover!

WISDOM AND A MOTHER

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see
The heavenly Earth’s felicity?

I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost,
Who lived a frail life at my cost.

A grief like yours how many have known!

Were that a balm to ease my own! 
Or rather might I not accuse
The Hand that does not even choose,
But, taking blindly, took my best,
And as indifferently takes the rest ... 
Like mine?  Is there denied to me
Even Sorrow’s singularity?

THE THRUSH SINGS

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... 
How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? 
Or though forgetting, sing—­and she is dead? 
                 O hush,
        Untimely, truant Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, “I sing that she is dead!”
Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,
Singeth the Thrush, “I sing her praise though dead.” 
                 O hush,
        Untimely, grievous Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, “I sing your happy dead,
I sing her who is living, and no more dead,
I sing her joy—­she is no longer dead.” 
                  O hush,
        Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!

TO MY MOTHER

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand,
Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven’s songs
Would as an alien reach....  Ah, but how far
From Heaven’s least heavenly is the changing note
And changing fancy of these fitful cries! 
Mother, forgive them, as the best of me
Has ever pleaded only for thy pardon,
Not for thy praise. 
                  Mother, there is a love
Men give to wives and children, lovers, friends;
There is a love which some men give to God. 
Ah! between this, I think, and that last love,
Last and too-late-discovered love of God,
There shines—­and nearer to the love of God—­
The love a man gives only to his mother,
Whose travail of dear thought has never end
Until the End.  Oh that my mouth had words
Comfortable as thy kisses to the boy
Who loved while he forgot thee!  Now I love,
Sundered and far, with daily heart’s remembrance
The face the wind brings to me, the sun lights,
The birds and waters sing; the face of thee
Whom I love with a love like love of God.

THE UNUTTERED