Classic Poem

Strew lightly o'er the soldier's grave
The springtime blossoms fresh and white,
And deck with wreaths and garlands bright
The silent couches of the brave.

They fought—they died—they lie at rest
Beneath yon low and grassy mounds;
No more for them the trumpet sounds
To thrill the patriotic breast.

But though they mingle with the dust
In that dark kingdom, where Decay
Sits thronéd in his halls of clay,
Their memory is free from rust.

For well we love to honor those
Who bravely fell amid the fight,
Who sank in all their vanquished might
Upon the field among their foes.

We honor both—the blue, the gray—
For time hath blotted from the mind
All bitter thoughts and words unkind
And washed all prejudice away.

And we remember only this,—
They bravely fought—they bravely died;
And, hero-like, their souls should ride
Along the ether seas of bliss.

Then spread upon each grave today
The fragrant blossoms of the spring,
And simple wreaths and garlands fling
Above the soldier's honored clay.