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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=534979" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Come Up From The Fields, Father</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete; <br> And come to the front door, mother-here's a letter from thy dear<br> son.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Lo, 'tis autumn; <br> Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,<br> Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the<br> moderate wind; <br> Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellis'd<br> vines; <br> (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? <br> Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?) </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Above all, lo, the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, and<br> with wondrous clouds; <br> Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful-and the farm prospers<br> well.    10</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Down in the fields all prospers well; <br> But now from the fields come, father-come at the daughter's call; <br> And come to the entry, mother-to the front door come, right away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Fast as she can she hurries-something ominous-her steps trembling; <br> She does not tarry to smoothe her hair, nor adjust her cap.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Open the envelope quickly; <br> O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd; <br> O a strange hand writes for our dear son-O stricken mother's soul! <br> All swims before her eyes-flashes with black-she catches the main<br> words only; <br> Sentences broken-gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish,<br> taken to hospital,   20<br> At present low, but will soon be better.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Ah, now, the single figure to me,<br> Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,<br> Sickly white in the face, and dull in the head, very faint,<br> By the jamb of a door leans.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through<br> her sobs; <br> The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismay'd ;) <br> See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Alas, poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be<br> better, that brave and simple soul ;) <br> While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already; 30<br> The only son is dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But the mother needs to be better; <br> She, with thin form, presently drest in black; <br> By day her meals untouch'd-then at night fitfully sleeping, often<br> waking,<br> In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,<br> O that she might withdraw unnoticed-silent from life, escape and<br> withdraw,<br> To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Walt+Whitman">Walt Whitman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=534979" data-title="Come Up From The Fields, Father de Walt Whitman" data-description="Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete; 
 And come to the front door, mother-here's a letter from thy dear
 son.

 Lo, 'tis autumn; 
 Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
 Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages..."></div>
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