Drift over the sunrise land,
Oh, wonderful, wonderful snow!
Oh! pure as the breast of a virgin saint,
Drift tenderly, soft and slow.
Over the slopes of the sunrise land,
And into the haunted dells
Of the forest of pine, where the roving winds
Are tuning their memory bells.
Into the forests of sighing pines,
And over those yellow slopes,
That show not the work of the cleaving plow,
But cover so many hopes;
They are many indeed, and straightly made,
Not shapen with loving care;
By the souls let out and the broken blades,
May never be counted there!
Fall over those lonely hero graves,
Oh, delicate-dropping snow,
Like the blessing of God's unfaltering love,
On the warrior heads below!
Like the tender sigh of a mother's soul
As she waiteth and watcheth for One
Who will never come back from the sunrise land,
When this terrible war is done.
And here, where lieth the high of heart,
Drift - white as the bridal veil -
That will never be borne by the drooping girl
Who waiteth afar, so pale.
Fall, that as the tears of the suffering wife,
Who stretcheth despairing hands
Out to the blood-rich battlefields
That crimson the Eastern sands!
Fall in thy virgin tenderness,
Oh, delicate snow, and cover
The graves of our heroes, sanctified
Husband and son and lover.
Drift tenderly over those yellow slopes,
And mellow our deep distress,
And put us in mind of the shriven souls
And their mantles of righteousness.
