The guns are silent in the valley now.
The river creeps serenely on its way.
Still clings the ivy to the rugged brow;
Of yonder hill, and roses grace the day.
No grave was heaped. No word of prayer was said.
No stone was reared against the pitying sky.
None ever knew where rests the silent dead
As unrevealing years go drifting by.
And yet he is not lost. This quiet sod;
Can rest him quite as well as anywhere,
Beneath the gentle, sleepless eye of God,
Whose robins sing for him when Spring is fair.
His life is wrought into the victory.
Glory is his. He need not urge his claim.
He lives on in the better age to be,
Though sleeping in a grave without a name.