The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves 
By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower 
Tilts its blue cup to catch the passing shower; 
The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves 
Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. 
Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower! -- 
The Southern nightingale that hour by hour 
In its melodious summer madness raves. 
Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, 
With what sweet voice of bird and rivulet 
And drowsy murmur of the rustling leaf 
Would Nature soothe us, bidding us forget 
The awful crime of this distracted land 
And all our heavy heritage of grief.