There's a sob and a prayer in the smoky air as their winged thoughts fly home. The Devil of war has dimmed the sky with the breath of his iron lungs, And he gluts his ear on the note of fear in the cry of the fevered tongues; Like the toll of a bell at the gate of hell is the wail of the fevered tongues. One rising, walked from the bullet shock, seems to reel 'neath the weight of his head, He feels for his gun and starts to run and falls in a hollow--dead. The wagons are coming and over each the light of a lantern swings, And a holy thought to the soul is brought, as the voice of a driver sings; And the cry of pain in the trampled grain is hushed as the driver sings: My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing. THE VEN'SON-TREE The busy cranes go back an' forth, a-ploughin' up the sky, The wild goose drag comes down the wind an' goes a-roarin' by; The song-birds sow their music in the blue fields over me An' it seems to grow up into thoughts about the ven'son-tree. The apple-blossoms scatter down--a scented summer snow, An' man an' wind an' cloud an' sun have all begun to sow. The green hopes come a-sproutin' up somewhere inside o' me, An' it's time we ought to see the sprouts upon the ven'son-tree. The velvet leaves the willow an' adorns the ven'son bough, There's new silk in the tree-top an' the coat o' horse an' cow. The woods are trimmed fer weddin's, an' are all in Sunday clo's, An' the bark upon the ven'son-tree is redder than a rose. The days are still an' smoky, an' the nights are growin' cold, The maples are a-drippin' blood, the beeches drippin' gold; The briers are above my head, the brakes above my knee, An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son- tree. What makes the big trees shake an' groan as if they all had sinned? 'Tis God A'mighty's reaper with the horses o' the wind. He will hitch with chains o' lightnin', He will urge with thunder call, He will try the rotten-hearted till they reel an' break an' fall. The leaves are driftin' in the breeze, an' gathered where they lie Are the colors o' the sunset an' the smell o' the windy sky; The squirrels whisk, with loaded mouths, an' stop an' say to me: "It's time to gether in the fruit upon the ven'son- tree." "What makes ye look so anxious an' what makes ye speak so low?" "It's 'cause I'm thinkin' of a place where I'm a-goin' to go. "This here I've, been a-tinkerin' which lays acrost my knee "Is the axe that I'm a-usin' fer to fell the ven'son- tree."