SHILOH, A REQUIEM
by Herman Melville

April, 1862

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
      The swallows fly low

Over the fields in cloudy days,
      The forest-field of Shiloh--
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched one stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
      Around the church of Shiloh--
The church, so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
             And natural prayer
      Of dying foeman mingled there--
Foeman at morn, but friends at eve--
      Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
      But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
      And all is hushed at Shiloh.