Ode to the Confederate Dead

    Row after row with strict impunity

    The headstones yield their names to the element，

    The wind whirrs without recollection；

    In the riven troughs the splayed leaves

    Pile up， of nature the casual sacrament

    To the seasonal eternity of death；

    Then driven by the fierce scrutiny

    Of heaven to their election in the vast breath，

    They sough the rumour of mortality.

    Autumn is desolation in the plot

    Of a thousand acres where these memories grow

    From the inexhaustible bodies that are not

    Dead， but feed the grass row after rich row.

    Think of the autumns that have come and gone！

    Ambitious November with the humors of the year，

    With a particular zeal for every slab，

    Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot

    On the slabs， a wing chipped here， an arm there：

    The brute curiosity of an angel's stare

    Turns you， like them， to stone，

    Transforms the heaving air

    Till plunged to a heavier world below

    You shift your sea-space blindly

    Heaving， turning like the blind crab.

    Dazed by the wind， only the wind

    The leaves flying， plunge

    You know who have waited by the wall

    The twilight certainty of an animal，

    Those midnight restitutions of the blood

    You know the immitigable pines， the smoky frieze

    Of the sky， the sudden call： you know the rage，

    The cold pool left by the mounting flood，

    Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.

    You who have waited for the angry resolution

    Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow，

    You know the unimportant shrift of death

    And praise the vision

    And praise the arrogant circumstance

    Of those who fall

    Rank upon rank， hurried beyond decision

    Here by the sagging gate， stopped by the wall.

    Seeing， seeing only the leaves

    Flying， plunge and expire

    Turn your eyes to the immoderate past，

    Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising

    Demons out of the earth they will not last.

    Stonewall， Stonewall， and the sunken fields of hemp，

    Shiloh， Antietam， Malvern Hill， Bull Run.

    Lost in that orient of the thick and fast

    You will curse the setting sun.

    Cursing only the leaves crying

    Like an old man in a storm

    You hear the shout， the crazy hemlocks point

    With troubled fingers to the silence which

    Smothers you， a mummy， in time.

    The hound bitch

    Toothless and dying， in a musty cellar

    Hears the wind only.

    Now that the salt of their blood

    Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea，

    Seals the malignant purity of the flood，

    What shall we who count our days and bow

    Our heads with a commemorial woe

    In the ribboned coats of grim felicity，

    What shall we say of the bones， unclean，

    Whose verdurous anonymity will grow？

    The ragged arms， the ragged heads and eyes

    Lost in these acres of the insane green？

    The gray lean spiders come， they come and go；

    In a tangle of willows without light

    The singular screech-owl's tight

    Invisible lyric seeds the mind

    With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

    We shall say only the leaves

    Flying， plunge and expire

    We shall say only the leaves whispering

    In the improbable mist of nightfall

    That flies on multiple wing：

    Night is the beginning and the end

    And in between the ends of distraction

    Waits mute speculation， the patient curse

    That stones the eyes， or like the jaguar leaps

    For his own image in a jungle pool， his victim.

    What shall we say who have knowledge

    Carried to the heart？  Shall we take the act

    To the grave？  Shall we， more hopeful， set up the grave

    In the house？  The ravenous grave？

    Leave now

    The shut gate and the decomposing wall：

    The gentle serpent， green in the mulberry bush，

    Riots with his tongue through the hush

    Sentinel of the grave who counts us all！