Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 19. A Twilight Song

As I sit in twilight late alone by the flickering oak-flame,
Musing on long-pass'd war-scenes--of the countless buried unknown
  soldiers,
Of the vacant names, as unindented air's and sea's--the unreturn'd,
The brief truce after battle, with grim burial-squads, and the
  deep-fill'd trenches
Of gather'd dead from all America, North, South, East, West, whence
  they came up,
From wooded Maine, New-England's farms, from fertile Pennsylvania,
  Illinois, Ohio,
From the measureless West, Virginia, the South, the Carolinas, Texas
(Even here in my room-shadows and half-lights in the noiseless
  flickering flames,
Again I see the stalwart ranks on-filing, rising--I hear the rhythmic
  tramp of the armies);
You million unwrit names all, all--you dark bequest from all the war,
A special verse for you--a flash of duty long neglected--your mystic
  roll strangely gather'd here,
Each name recall'd by me from out the darkness and death's ashes,
Henceforth to be, deep, deep within my heart recording, for many a
  future year,
Your mystic roll entire of unknown names, or North or South,
Embalm'd with love in this twilight song.