  Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody’s darling was borne one day— Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow Pale are the lips of delicate mould,— Somebody’s darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow Brush all the wandering waves of gold, Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody’s darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take,— They were somebody’s pride you know. Somebody’s hand had rested there,— Was it a mother’s, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light? God knows best; he has somebody’s love; Somebody’s heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand: Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody’s waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to the heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear: Carve on the wooden slab at his head,— “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.” —Marie Lacoste. |
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