A FANCY.

A FANCY.

’NEATH sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade;The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotoneIn which I hear, in fancy, softly blown,The stirring bugle notes that once were playedTo mocking echoes in a Southern glade;I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone—The noise and stir of war, all backward thrownAcross the gulf that peaceful years have made.But long ago the clouds of war had spentTheir fury; sounds of strife no longer fillThe field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent—But those same bugle tones are sounding still,And ringing through the starry firmament,Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill.

’NEATH sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade;The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotoneIn which I hear, in fancy, softly blown,The stirring bugle notes that once were playedTo mocking echoes in a Southern glade;I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone—The noise and stir of war, all backward thrownAcross the gulf that peaceful years have made.But long ago the clouds of war had spentTheir fury; sounds of strife no longer fillThe field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent—But those same bugle tones are sounding still,And ringing through the starry firmament,Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill.

’NEATH sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade;The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotoneIn which I hear, in fancy, softly blown,The stirring bugle notes that once were playedTo mocking echoes in a Southern glade;I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone—The noise and stir of war, all backward thrownAcross the gulf that peaceful years have made.

’NEATH sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade;

The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotone

In which I hear, in fancy, softly blown,

The stirring bugle notes that once were played

To mocking echoes in a Southern glade;

I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone—

The noise and stir of war, all backward thrown

Across the gulf that peaceful years have made.

But long ago the clouds of war had spentTheir fury; sounds of strife no longer fillThe field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent—But those same bugle tones are sounding still,And ringing through the starry firmament,Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill.

But long ago the clouds of war had spent

Their fury; sounds of strife no longer fill

The field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent—

But those same bugle tones are sounding still,

And ringing through the starry firmament,

Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill.


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