Hush'd Be the Camps To-Day by Walt Whitman

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.

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.