Walt Whitman

Hush’d be the Camps Today

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

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