“Taps” falls far sweeter on the air
Than any other sound.
Like opiate rare, it soothes all care—
To weary men a blessing seems—
And pleasant are the soldier’s dreams
Tho’ stretched upon the ground.
Ah, Taps, thy mournful signal call
Floats o’er a new-made grave,
Thy soft notes fall where one from all
Life’s weary march forever rests—