Explore "Killed at the Ford" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He is dead, the beautiful youth, / The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, / He, the life and light of us all, / Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, / Whom all eyes followed with one consent, / The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, / Hushed all murmurs of discontent.
Only last night, as we rode along, / Down the dark of the mountain gap, / To visit the picket-guard at the ford, / Little dreaming of any mishap, / He was humming the words of some old song: / "Two red roses he had on his cap, / And another he bore at the point of his sword."