Softly falls the rain, bare feet dance me home,
My boots were made to stay, but my feet were made to roam.
The silver maple sings with rhythm of my heart,
And forms an ancient song some sage did me impart.
The canons are silent, no drum o’er the hedgerow,
Just the sound of rain on summer wheat.
I dance for beauty, I dance for laughter,
Beyond the pinewood, through furrow’d field – I dance for love.
Gone, I’ve three long years, mired in martyrs’ fields,
But now my steps turn ever homeward,
Dance me past the old gray mill and the meadow’s brow,
Homeward! Dance, dance.
Soft falls the rain, bare feet dance me home,
My boots were made to stay, but my feet were made to roam.
Sarah waits for me with eyes of summer sky,
Her voice a dulcimer that plays a lullaby.
Behind the clouds the sun is still shining,
Dance!
William Straub, Civil War poem, 1865