Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ NOT alone those camps of white, O soldiers,

When, as order'd forward, after a long march,

Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessen'd, we
halt for the night;

Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack,
dropping asleep in our tracks;

Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up
began to sparkle,

Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through
the dark,

And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;

Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly
beating the drums,

We rose up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over,
and resumed our journey,

Or proceed to battle.

² Lo! the camps of the tents of green,

Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of
war keep filling,

With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it
too only halting awhile,

Till night and sleep pass over?)

³ Now in those camps of green—in their tents dotting
the world;

In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them—in
the old and young,

Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moon-
light, content and silent there at last,

Behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of
all,

Of the corps and generals all, and the President over the
corps and generals all,

And of each of us O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we
fought,

(There without hatred we all, all meet.)

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⁴ For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in
the bivouac-camps of green;

But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the
countersign,

Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.

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