Yea, Death, we bow our faces, veil our eyes to thee, We mourn the old, the young untimely drawn to thee, The fair, the strong, the good, the capable, The household wreck’d, the husband and the wife, the engulf’d forger in his forge, The corpses in the whelming waters and the mud, The gather’d thousands to their funeral mounds, and thousands never found or gather’d.

Then after burying, mourning the dead, (Faithful to them found or unfound, forgetting not, bearing the past, here new musing,) A day⁠—a passing moment or an hour⁠—America itself bends low, Silent, resign’d, submissive.

War, death, cataclysm like this, America, Take deep to thy proud prosperous heart.