 | Leaves of grass. |  |
HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TO-DAY. A. L. BURIED APRIL 19, 1865.
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.
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.
| Leaves of grass. | |