Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HUNDRED DAYS' MEN; ILLINOIS, MAY, 1864, by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HUNDRED DAYS' MEN; ILLINOIS, MAY, 1864, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis time the corn was planted, the latest wheat was sown
Last Line: But joyfully, in busy may, gave up our thousands more!
Alternate Author Name(s): Dean
Subject(s): American Civil War; Government; Illinois; Indiana; Ohio; Soldiers; U.s. - History


In the busiest season of the spring of 1864, the States of Ohio, Indiana,
and Illinois pledged to the Government of the United States one hundred thousand
men for a hundred days.

'TIS time the corn was planted, the latest wheat was sown —
The oriole is in the elm, the last swan northward flown;
By streams the cottonwood is green, the plum waves white as snow,
The wild-crab blushes in the woods, the red-bud soon will blow;
And to the fenceless pastures, whose grass grows sweet and tall,
Slow move the herds, to feed at will till autumn frosts shall fall.
O for the arms so sturdy, O for the tireless feet,
That shared our toil when other Mays brought summer bloom and heat!
But proud we spared our manliest to face the country's foe;
To march when word comes, 'Forward!' to ride when bugles blow:
Now calm they sleep, by plain and hill, wrapped in their army-blue,
Or bear our banners bravely on — and will, till wars are through!

And still there's peril. Fife and drum thrill every village now,
And quickly down the grain is flung and idle stands the plough.
O eager youth! O earnest men! your steps we will not stay;
There's nobler need, there's weightier work; haste to the camp away!
We'll bear the double burden, and blithely plant and sow,
That tent and town and lonely roof no fear of want may know.
And when come round the reaping-days and lingering moonlight-eves,
In cheerful households, young and old, we'll bind the ripened sheaves;
The girls shall pluck the golden ears, the happy children glean,
And thus we'll bring the harvest home, with many a song between,
And praise to God that sheaves nor sons we prized, the Land before,
But joyfully, in busy May, gave up our thousands more!





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