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.
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.
But sing, poet, in our name;
Sing of the love we bore him--because you, dweller in camps, know it
truly.
As they invault the coffin there; 10
Sing--as they close the doors of earth upon him--one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.
More verses by Walt Whitman
- Europe, The 72d And 73d Years Of These States
- Mother And Babe
- Respondez!
- I Hear It Was Charged Against Me
- Sea-Shore Memories