Classic Poem

A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR 1870 .

That foxglove by the garden gate,
The very day the war began,
Opened its first, its lowest flower
The post that morn was late;
Anxious I waited for the man,
Then went into this wild-rose bower,
And heard the warning voice of fate.

Week by week, even day by day,
Another petal opened fair,
Advancing up the long light stem:
I counted them,
As I passed there,
While my heart was far away,
Listening early, listening late,
To the German march — the march of Fate.
And when France lay
Quivering in the gory clay,
The topmost bell
Rang a dirge before it fell.