God bless this house and keep us all from hurt.
She led us gravely up the straight long stair;
We were afraid; two held her by the skirt,
One by the hand, and so to bed and prayer.
How frail a thing the little candle shone!
Beneath its flame looked dim and soft and high
The chair, the drawers; she like a tall flower blown
In a great space under a shadowy sky.
God bless us all and Lee and Beauregard—
Without, a soldier paced, in hated blue,
The road betwixt the tents in pale array
And our gnarled gate. But in the windy yard
White tulips raced along the drip of dew;—
Our mother with her candle went away.