PLAY me a march, low-tonâ??d and slowâ??a march for a silent tread,
Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,
Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.
HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clockâ??s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace; ...
CHILDREN indeed are weâ??children that wait
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless sky;
The house is fair, yet all is desolate ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.