’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 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.