A silent bivouac of the dead, we say,
While on the low green tents we lay our flowers,
And with soft tread we take our reverent way
Past where each seems to sleep away the hours.
A silent bivouac? Nay, they sleep not here:
Their shot-torn flags still wave upon the air,
The brave die never, though they sleep in dust:
Their graves are cradles of the purpose high
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