Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night:

When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return’d, with a look I shall never forget;

One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground….

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading;

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh—Long, long I gazed;

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands;

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade—Not a tear, not a word;

Vigil of silence, love and death—vigil for you, my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;

Vigil final for you, brave boy (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living—I think we shall surely meet again),

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;

And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited;

Ending my vigil strange with that—vigil of night and battle-field dim;

Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding);

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain—vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.