Life grows less close and Death is robbed of much of doubt and fear;
For, as the burning words go forth upon the balmy wind,
Men's thoughts are swayed by tones that sing the glory of mankind.
Then, muffled drums, roll on, and flags your brilliant colors furl;
For here the Dead sleep on, and here no more may warfare hurl
Its blighting torch, its screaming shell, its horror and its dread.
Hark! on the summer wind is born a Requiem for the Dead!