Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/46

 Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe
 * For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers;

And o’er your tomb a virgin’s prayer I breathe
 * To greet the pure moon and the April showers.

I only know, I only care to know,
 * You died for me—for me and country bled;

A thousand Springs and wild December snow
 * Will weep for one of all the Southern Dead.

Perchance some mother gazes up the skies,
 * Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave—

Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes
 * Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.

The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand
 * Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires,

Above the relics of a vanquished land,
 * And light the torch of sanctifying fires.