Shiloh: A Requiem
(April, 1862)
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
⁠      The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
⁠      The forest-field of Shiloh—
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
⁠      Around the church of Shiloh—
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
⁠      And natural prayer
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.

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