The Old Poet: Margaret Preston Remembers

—Lexington, Virginia, July 21, 1891

  The old talk to themselves or with their dead, As I, sitting alone with you, my dear, Not seeing much, nor hearing any voices This day of days, when they again assemble At Thomas’s grave to honor him, as when, So long ago, I saw our soldiers come (Even some of theirs though still the enemy) To mark his grave with gathered flowers and leaves— Fit tribute of the brave man to the brave.   Soon they will fire the cannon, a peaceful signal, And not as once, stopped in the orchard sun, Or in a garden row or quiet street, I heard it like a dry and distant thunder, Sounding over the Blue Ridge haze from fields— Manassas, Winchester, and Chancellorsville— Where Thomas taught them how a soldier fights. I’ll not be there today to hear his praises; Someone will read my own old ode for him. I did not have the heart to write a new one. I shall sit here with you, remembering him, As only you and I and Ellie knew him, Just as he was when we were young together, The few short years he lived in my father’s house. Earnest and ardent, so precise in speech, Yet with a cheek that colored with delight When Elinor embraced him and consented; With eyes that shone with laughter at my wit.   Afterward came the terrible year: lost wife, Lost sister, the child who never breathed, and Then my dear mother after long pain and fever. Our painful healing, month by month: shared faith, Shared books, and hours of deep wide-ranging talk. Stories and laughter took the place of mourning. Perfect his resignation; mine was not. You knew, of course, I loved him and he me, As much as one can love, without a hope To marry. Separation cooled the flame. He traveled, met Anna, and I, dear John, found you. Thereafter, never a day shadowed our love, Not even war with all its absences. Your daughters became my daughters, your sons my sons. And our two boys then crowned our kingdom’s joy.   There. There. I feel the gun’s salute again, Might hear the applause and shouting for our Thomas, The dear dead Major, as we called him then, The storied Stonewall as the world soon knew him— Might hear, were my ears sharp as they once were When I heard guns at thirty miles or more Sounded again at Manassas on the field, Where later you found William’s shallow grave, His golden hair crumbled, matted with dirt, His fair expressive face despoiled of features. You knew him only by his soldier’s shirt, Where I, good seamstress, had embroidered his name. You covered him with our Virginia earth.   The nation heals itself. You felt it would, Even mid-war when northern infantry, To honor Thomas, walked to his unmarked grave. Fighting, you shared our goal of revolution, Though I perceived you doubted our success. My loss was sure: father, brothers, and sisters Estranged from me, my memories of home Expunged by war. And he, who taught me Greek, The love of truth, and skills that enrich the mind— He wiped Virginia’s dust from his carriage wheels Believing the Union held millennial hope, Would bring the reign of Christ to all the world. Even after it was over, on his return, His righteousness meeting your mild forbearance Never lost its edge. And though he recognized My choice was Ruth’s, I wonder even now If he forgave me. Angered by separation From me, his grandsons, and from my mother’s grave, Suffering the loss of home and of his calling, His choice severer than mine, did he at last Discover wholeness, an unconflicted love Before he died? We never spoke of it, So deep, so strong was his choice for the Union.   I carried in my heart broad northern streams, The clean hard light of Pennsylvania’s skies. You knew my agonized, conflicted will, And you foresaw, prophetically, our loss, But went more bravely to the fight than zealots...