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Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900.

194. Hush’d be the Camps To-day


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. 
  
No more for him life’s stormy conflicts;         5
Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time’s dark events, 
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky. 
  
2

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;  10
Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—one verse, 
For the heavy hearts of soldiers. 


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