Our Privilege
Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, And battle dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls By sword and bayonet. Not ours to guide the fatal scythe The fleshless Reaper wields; The harvest moon looks calmly down Upon our peaceful fields. The long grass dimples on the hill, The pines sing by the sea, And Plenty, from her golden horn, Is pouring far and free. O brothers by the farther sea! Think still our faith is warm; The same bright flag above us waves That swathed our baby form. The same red blood that dyes your fields Here throbs in patriot pride, The blood that flowed when Lander fell, And Bakers crimson tide. And thus apart our hearts keep time With every pulse ye feel, And Mercys ringing gold shall chime With Valors clashing steel.
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About this line
"Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,..."
This evocative piece by Bret Harte (Francis), titled "Our Privilege", represents a masterful exploration of classic. The lines capture a profound emotional resonance... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...