ASHES of soldiers South or North，

    As I muse retrospective murmuring a chant in thought，

    The war resumes， again to my sense your shapes，

    And again the advance of the armies.

    Noiseless as mists and vapors，

    From their graves in the trenches ascending，

    From cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee，

    From every point of the compass out of the countless graves，

    In wafted clouds， in myriads large， or squads of twos or

    threes or single ones they come，

    And silently gather round me.

    Now sound no note O trumpeters，

    Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses，

    With sabres drawn and glistening， and carbines by their

    thighs， （ah my brave horsemen！

    My handsome tan-faced horsemen！ what life， what joy and

    pride，

    With all the perils were yours.）

    Nor you drummers， neither at reveillé at dawn，

    Nor the long roll alarming the camp， nor even the muffled

    beat for a burial，

    Nothing from you this time O drummers bearing my warlil

    drums.