The old disaster wears a beauty now;
The battlefield is blossoming and green,
While wrecked woods wear their violets,
Proudly as any queen.
There is no withering or grief
In the soft rain that falls
As tenderly in April air
As moonlight on old walls.
And if a stray ghost wanders here,
His footfalls make no sound
To stir the accumulated peace
On consecrated ground.
Part Of Pennsylvania
If you have known a grey stone house,
Spring-bright with daffodils,
Or watched pink apple blossoms tint
Low Pennsylvania hills;
If you have loved a covered bridge
Or walked a starlight lane
When hylas made the evening shrill
With monotoned refrain;
If you have gathered violets
And learned where laurel grows,
Thrilled to the scent of rain-washed pine
Or hemlocks sprayed with snows;
If you have watched a partridge whirr
Across a harvest field
Or robbed a grey November fence
Of bittersweet's bright yield;
If you have loved the Indian names
Of winding creek and river,
You're part of Pennsylvania
Forever and forever.