 | Leaves of grass (1872) |  |
1
[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.
| Leaves of grass (1872) | |