One noonday, at my window in the town,
    I saw a sight -- saddest that eyes can see --
    Young soldiers marching lustily
      Unto the wars,
With fifes, and flags in [mottoed]1 pageantry;
      While all the porches, walks, and doors
Were rich with ladies cheering royally.
  
They moved like [Juny]2 morning on the wave,
  Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
  (It was the breezy summer time),
       Life throbbed so strong,
How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime
  Would come to thin their shining throng?
Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.

Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
    By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
    On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
      Some marching feet
Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;
     Wakeful I mused, while in the street
Far footfalls died away till none were left.