Midnight

Then in the lull of midnight
Then in the lull of midnight, gentle arms
Lifted him slowly down the slopes of death
Lest he should hear again the mad alarms
Of battle, dying moans, and painful breath

And where the earth was soft for flowers we made
A grave for him that he might better rest
So spring shall come and leave it sweet arrayed
And there the lark shall turn her dewy nest
1