Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
194. Hushd 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.
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.
Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.