Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt
Army of Occupation
The summer blew its little drifts of sound—
Tangled with wet leaf-shadows and the light
Small breath of scattered morning buds—around
The yellow path through which our footsteps wound.
Below, the Capitol rose glittering white.
There stretched a sleeping army. One by one,
They took their places until thousands met;
No leader's stars flashed on before, and none