Come with me, O lover’s heart
And tell me of your winter’s chill
When love is seen as solemn art
And tears beside the graven fill.
Speak in silence of that night
Passion’s flor, but soft delight
Tenderness his heart in hand
‘Fore the call of marching band.
Then tears beside a fainting light
A folded gram: He died for right
And many other psalms of praise
With flags aloft in brooded haze.
Wilt in labors ‘neath the moon
Cradled a son for a yellow band
Tied beside his old man’s tomb
Nothing is left, but a little sand.
O, and a bit of wax, a tepid flame
A keeper of a stone carved name
A candle from that one last night
When love is lost in hurried flight.
So come with me, and tell me dear
A weighted heart, but still so near
A solemn day for those who stayed
A marching band that will not fade.