Kaavya

Lexington

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,

Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
Waving her golden veil
Over the silent dale,
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;

Hushed was his parting sigh,
While from his noble eye
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.
On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing

Calmly the first-born of glory have met;
Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!

Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death,
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died";
Nerveless the iron hand,
Raised for its native land,
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Photo Source: Israeli soldiers stand around the body of a Palestinian after they shot him dead