Walt Whitman (1819–92)

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,

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

For the heavy hearts of soldiers.