(_Washington City, 1865_)
How solemn as one by one,
As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I
stand,
As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the
masks
(As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend,
whoever you are),
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks,
and to you!
I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul,
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are;
The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab O friend.