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 pauses of the 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
Famе or country least their care:
(What likе a bullet can undeceive!)
And now they lay low
While over them the swallows skim
And all is hushed at Shiloh