Skimming lightly, wheeling still
The swallows fly low
Over the fields 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