Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

contents | previous | next

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 As they invault the coffin there;

Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—
one verse,

For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

contents | previous | next