Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly
Over the field in clouded days,
The forest-field of Shiloh —Over the field where April
Solaced the parched one stretched in
Through the pause of
That followed the Sunday
Around the church of Shiloh—The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting
And natural
Of dying foemen mingled there —Foemen 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.
