Come Up from the Fields, Father

“Come up from the fields, Father,
Here’s a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door Mother
Here’s a letter from thy dear son.”

Lo, ‘tis autumn, lo ‘tis autumn.
The trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten villages,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang
And grapes on the trellis’d vines.

Down in the fields all prospers well;
“But now from the fields come, Father—
Come at thy daughter’s call;
And come to the entry Mother—
To the front door come, right away.”

Fast as she can she hurries, hurries, trembling;
She does not tarry to smooth her hair;
Nor adjust her cap.

“Open the envelope quickly;
O a strange hand writes for our dear son”—
She catches the main words only—
Gunshot wound in the breast,—
Cavalry skirmish,—
Taken to hospital—
At present low, but soon will be better.

A figure sickly white by the jamb of a door leans.
“Grieve not so, dear Mother,
See dearest Mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.
See dearest Mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.”

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better,
While they stand at home at the door,
He is dead already, the only son is dead.

But the Mother needs to be better;
By day her meals untouch’d—
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing,
Longing with one deep longing,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.