Walt Whitman(1819–1892) · Leaves of Grass · Goodbye My Fancy · 1891
Over and through the burial chant, Organ and solemn service, sermon, bending priests, To me come interpolation sounds not in the show—plainly to me, crowding up the aisle and from the window, Of sudden battle’s hurry and harsh noises—war’s grim game to sight and ear in earnest; The scout call’d up and forward—the general mounted and his aids around him—the new-brought word—the instantaneous order issued; The rifle crack—the cannon thud—the rushing forth of men from their tents; The clank of cavalry—the strange celerity of forming ranks—the slender bugle note; The sound of horses’ hoofs departing—saddles, arms, accoutrements.