These heroes are dead.
They died for liberty —
they died for us.
They are at rest.
They sleep in the land they made free,
under the flag they rendered stainless,
under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks,
the tearful willows, the embracing vines.
They sleep beneath the shadow of the clouds,
careless alike of sunshine or storm,
each in the windowless palace of rest.
Earth may run red with other wars —
they are at peace.
In the midst of the battles, in the roar of conflicts,
they found the serenity of death.