New-York tribune., 1872-06-04
A DECORATION DAY POEM
BY BRET UARTE.

The following poem, written LOT INC occa
sion was read at the Decoration Day exercises on the
evening OF May 80. at Rochester;
MISS BLANcHE's ROSE.
And you are the poet, and so, you want
somethng-what is tia theme, a fancy
Something or other the muse won't grant
IN your old poetca necromancy. son
Do M know the muse when you chance 20 meet her,
For a dinednt goddess TO drop from the sky
When flesh and blood may be standing ny
Quite at your service, should you Dut greet heI'
What II told youmy own romancei
Women are poets, II you 50 take them
Onethird pOet--the rest what chance -
OF man ana marriage may choose to make them'
Give me ten minutes before you co.
Here at the window we1 sit together,
Watching the currents that ebb and now
watching the world as 1t drifts below
Up the hot avenues dusty glow
Is MT it pleasant-this bright juno weatheI'
We'll, it was after the war broke out,
And was q school girl fresh from Parls,
Papa had contracts, and roaned about
And did nothng-fOr was an heiress
Picked some lint, now think. Perhaps
Havelocks made for the soldiers caps;
Stood at fair tables and peddled traps
Quite at a profit. The shoulder straps
Thought was pretty. Ah, thank you, really'
Still, it ,oas stupid Ratatat tat ,-
Those were the sounds of that battle summer
Till the earth seemed parchment r0und ana na''
And every football the tap of drummer
And. day by day. down the avenue went
Cavalry, Infantry, all together,
Till my plying angel one day sent
That halted, Just as the day spent,
Here at our door in the bright June weather
None of your dandy warriors they;
Men from the West, but where, know not;
Haggard and travelstained, worn and gray
With never "a ribbon or Lace or boW-knOti
And opened the window, ana ieahlhS lneIc,
felt in their presence the free winds blowing;
MY neck and shoulders and arms were bare
lid not dream they might think me ialI-
Bat had some flowers that night IN my halr,
And here, my bosom, red rose glowing
tt,o rfpdo o1o thQ line.
Dusty and dirty and grim ana solemn,
TIL an eye like bayonet fash met mine ,,r
And dark face grew from tue darkening S1lunn' 1
Aud quick fame eaped 10 my icy eyes Is ,1dL ah1 naAl
And the next found myself standing there
With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less ialr'
And the rose from my bosom tossed hlgh III ar
Like blood drop falling Oh plume ana iealneI'
Then drew back quicky-there came cheer,
A rush of figures, noise ana uisslc,
And then it was over, and high ana clear' ,
My red rose blOOmed Ou his gums black muzze.
Then far in the darkness sharp voice crled'
And slowly and steadily all together,
Shoulder TO shoulder and side TO slde,
Rising and falling, and swaylng Wlde,
But bearing above them the rose, my prllo
They marched away In the twilight "eather'
And leaned from the window and watched my rose
Tossed on the waves OF the surging coumh'
Warmed from above in the sunset Flows
Then shut the window heard no more
Ofmv soldier friend, my flower, neither,
But lived my life as did before;
did not go a nurse 10 the war
sick folks TO Inc are dreadful bore
So didn't 80 TO the hospitals, either
You SMILE o poet, and what do you -,
Yon lean from your window, and watch Lies column
Tramping and struggling through dust and dew
Filled with its purposes grave and solemn,
And an act, gesture, a face-who knOwsi
Touches your fancy TO thrill and haunt you,
And YOU pluck from bosom the verse that grows
And down il flies like my red red rose,
And Won sit and dream as away 1t goes,
Aud think that your duty is dOne-nOw don't you'll
know your answer Pm not yet through,
Look at this photograph" In the Trenches"
That dead man IN the coat OF blue
Holds n withered rose in his hand. That clenches
Nothing! Except that the sun paints true
And a woman sometimes Is prophetic-mnded,
And that's my romance. And Poet, you
Take il and mold il to suit your view
And who knows but you may find II too,
Come to your heart once more as mine did.