Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and
carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his
grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, ( never again on earth
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his
And buried him where he fell.
Walt Whitman (1819–1892), U.S. poet. Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night (l. 18–26). . .