ING, bird, on green Missouri's plain, Thy saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender! Up rose serene the August sun Up curled from musket and from gun It gathered like a funeral pall Now broken and now blended, Where rang the bugle's angry call, And rank with rank contended. |