At Andersonville

WHEN the weird, wondering wind is still,

There, in the valleys of Andersonville,

At that shivering hour—the grim half-way

Of the ghostly march of the dark to day,

There are sounds too mystical to repeat;

Eager voices, hurrying feet,

Ribald laughter and jest — and then

The prayers and pleadings of prisoned men.

At dead of night, when the wind is still,

There is life in the shadows of Andersonville.

When the hills gloom black in the midnight shade,

There are signs of life in the old stockade;

The phantom guards in the prison bounds

Resume their sorrowful, silent rounds;

While the glowworm's lantern gleams and waves

Adown the aisles of a thousand graves;

And then to the listening ear there comes

The mystic roll of the muffled drums.

The drama ends and the dreamer wakes :

In the flowering fields and the tangled brakes

The birds are singing, the liquid notes

Rise to heaven from their thrilling throats;

The sunlight falls with a softened beam

On the voiceless graves where the dead men dream;

While hill and valley and prison sod

Rest in the smile and the peace of God.

But at dead of night, when the wind is still,

There is life in the shadows of Andersonville.