O.W. D.

I often wonder, Oscar,
How it fares with you;
Do you look down and smile on us,
From that vast realm of blue?

Tell me, Brother, do you hear
The belching cannon's roar?
Does their death-dealing thunder break
Your peace on yonder shore?

I seem to hear you answering,
That toil and pain and woe
And care and strife—ah! yes, and death
Were left behind, below.