Where Now Sings the Sweetest Morning Lark

An Old Battlefield , by Frank L. Stanton The softest whisperings of the scented South, And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth; And, where the thunders of the fight were born, The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn; With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, And blue skies bending over love and home. But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills, Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills, Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat For the loved sound of unreturning feet, And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave, Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave! Frank L. Stanton ------------------------------------------------------ My tribute below, to this great man and his fine poem quoted above. Where Now Sings The Sweetest Morning Lark The morning dew falls upon the ground precious soil, where blood was laid down Fine men, hearty soldiers one and all upon this battlefield they did bravely fall Silence now , no loud cannons booming out no screaming in an agonizing painful shout Bullets once whizzed onward to hit their mark where now sings the sweetest morning lark Morning mists now wrap the towering hills where war took so many with senseless kills Courage so true, could still save no man not if cruelest Fate had a different plan Death raced about in the air with glee sad was every blood soaked dying plea Of brave men that fought and valiantly died leaving behind family that forever cried The setting sun casts a saddened glow on this once bloody soil covered with snow No victor's glory can ever stand to replace these fallen that lost their greatest race No laurels given at that deadly finish line no great banquet to celebrate and dine Only quiet and forgotten memories remain of this great battle and its bloody stain Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015