Come Up From the Fields
adapted from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman

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.

Down in the fields all prospers well

Open the envelope quickly;
This is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd;
A strange hand writes for our dear son‐O stricken mother's soul!

Lo, 'tis autumn;
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower, redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages

Grieve not, dear mother
Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better