Sunday, December 21, 2008

Missing - by Eleanor C. Donnelly

This morning, while doing some research for my latest project, "The Theory of the Plate", I came across the following poem by Eleanor C. Donnelly.

It reminded me that we, all of us, should take a moment to appreciate the luxury we have of living in a free country and take an equal moment remembering those who have fallen while serving to protect our freedoms.

As you prepare to celebrate this Christmas holiday, please keep all those who are serving our country in your heart and in your prayers; make sure they are not forgotten or go missing...

Take care...



In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook,
Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old ground,
And the wind, and the birds, and the limpid brook
Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound, ---
Who lies so still in the plushy moss,
With his pale cheek pressed to a breezy pillow,
Couched where the light and shadows cross
Through the flickering fringe of the willow?
Who lies, alas!
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?

A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress,
A bright-haired man, with his lips apart,
One hand thrown up o’er his frank, dead face,
And the other clutching his pulseless heart,
Lies there in the shadows cool and dim,
His musket brushed by a trailing bough;
A careless grace in his quiet limbs,
And a wound on his manly brow:
A wound, alas!
Whose dark clots blood the pleasant grass.

The violets peer from their dusky beds
With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes;
The lilies quiver their shining heads,
Their pale lips full of a sad surprise;
And the lizard darts through the glistening fern,
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary;
Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to burn
Their wings in the sunset glory
While the shadows pass
O’er the quiet face on the dewy grass.

God pity the bride who waits at home,
With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes,
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love,
While the lover is walking in paradise!
God strengthen her heart as the days go by,
And the long, drear nights of her vigils follow;
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind
May breather the tale of the hollow!
Alas! alas!
The secret is safe with the woodland grass.

- Eleanor C. Donnelly