Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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WORD over all, beautiful as the sky!

Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in
time be utterly lost;

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night, incessantly
softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world:

…For my enemy is dead—a man divine as myself is dead;

I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin—I
draw near;

I bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face
in the coffin.

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