Julia L. Keyes
Only one killed–in company B,
‘Twas a trifling loss–one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee–
While merry enough it was, to see
The enemy, as he ran.
Only one killed upon our side–
Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride–
And pause by the form of the one who died,
So bravely, as now we learn.
Their grief for the comrade loved and true
For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through
That his pain was brief–ah! very few
Die thus, on the battle-field.
The news has gone to his home, afar–
Of the short and gallant fight,
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var
Whose life went out as a falling star
In the skirmish of that night.
“Only one killed! It was my son,”
The widowed mother cried.
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
But of him who had bravely died.
Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf
Now trodden and brown and sere!
But no, she must bear through coming life
Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation’s bloody strife,
Sighing, and waiting to go.
Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
Are meeting no more to part,
They can smile once more through the crystal bars–
Where never more will the woe of wars
O’ershadow the loving–heart.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem starts with a line that sounds casual, almost careless: “Only one killed.” That phrase is doing heavy work from the start. It reflects the language of military reports, where losses are counted and minimized, and where a single death can be written off as acceptable. The poem immediately sets up a gap between how war talks about death and how death is actually lived by the people left behind.
The opening stanzas stay close to the battlefield. There is motion, confidence, even a touch of excitement. The charge is “bold and dashing,” the enemy runs, and the loss is framed as “trifling.” This is the tone of men who are still inside the machinery of war, where momentum matters more than reflection. Even the pause beside the fallen soldier feels brief, controlled, almost professional. The men note that his pain was short, as if that fact might make the moment easier to carry. The poem does not criticize them directly, but it quietly exposes the way soldiers learn to soften death just enough to keep moving.
The shift comes when the poem leaves the field and follows the news home. The report of “only one killed” collapses instantly when it reaches the people who loved him. For the mother, that one is not a number but her son, the center of her remaining life. The poem is careful here. It does not dramatize her reaction with speeches or grand gestures. Her grief is blunt and stunned. The line “It was my son” strips the phrase of all military comfort. What was once a small loss becomes absolute.
The poem then deepens the cost by introducing the young wife. Calling her the “bride of a single year” is enough. There is no need for detail. Her life has barely begun, and already it has been defined by absence. The wish for death, framed gently and without anger, shows how grief can make even life itself feel like an obligation rather than a gift. The imagery of the autumn leaf, crushed and colorless, reinforces the sense of youth cut short and promise wasted.
What follows is one of the poem’s hardest truths. The mother and the wife must go on. There is no release for them, no victory that cancels their loss. While the nation continues its “bloody strife,” they are left with quiet endurance. The poem refuses to offer comfort through patriotism or purpose. Their suffering is not redeemed by the cause. It simply continues.
The final stanza offers a restrained turn toward consolation, but even this is distant. Reunion is placed beyond the stars, beyond time, beyond war. It does not solve the present pain; it only suggests that pain is not permanent. This ending feels less like triumph and more like a thin, necessary hope, something held because there is nothing else to hold.
As a war poem, this piece stands out because of what it refuses to do. It does not glorify the fallen through heroic language. It does not celebrate the charge or the victory. Instead, it dismantles a single phrase—“only one killed”—and shows how false it becomes the moment it leaves the battlefield. The poem’s power lies in its quiet insistence that no death in war is small, and that every number on a report carries a private world that will never be whole again.