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

    Solaced¹ the parched² ones stretched in pain

    through the pause of night

    That followed the Sunday fight

    Around the church of Shiloh——

    The church so lone³， the log-built one，

    That echoed to many a parting groan⁴

    And natural prayer

    Of dying foemen mingled⁵ 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.