Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ HUSH'D be the camps to-day;

And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;

And each, with musing soul retire, to celebrate,

Our dear commander's death.

² No more for him life's stormy conflicts;

Nor victory, nor defeat—No more time's dark events,

Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.

³ But sing, poet, in our name;

Sing of the love we bore him—because you, dweller in
camps, know it truly.

⁴ Sing, to the lower'd coffin there;

Sing, with the shovel'd clods that fill the grave—a
verse,

For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

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