Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

  The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

  The forest-field of Shiloh--

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

  Around the church of Shiloh--

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

 	And natural prayer

  Of dying foemen mingled there--

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve--

  Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

  But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

  And all is hushed at Shiloh.