The sun is gold, and the world is green,
⁠Opal the vapors of morning roll;
The champing horses lightly prance—
Full of caprice, and the riders too
⁠Curving in many a caricole.
⁠But marshaled soon, by fours advance—
⁠Mosby had checked that airy dance.

By the hospital-tent the cripples stand—
⁠Bandage, and crutch, and cane, and sling,
And palely eye the brave array;
The froth of the cup is gone for them
⁠(Caw! caw! the crows through the blueness wing);
⁠Yet these were late as bold, as gay;
⁠But Mosby—a clip, and grass is hay.

How strong they feel on their horses free,
⁠Tingles the tendoned thigh with life;
Their cavalry-jackets make boys of all—
With golden breasts like the oriole;
⁠The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife.
⁠But word is passed from the front—a call