The guns were silent, and the silent hills br had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze br I gazed upon the vales and on the rills, br And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these? br These long forgotten dead with sunken graves, br Some crossless, with unwritten memories br Their only mourners are the moaning waves, br Their only minstrels are the singing trees br And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully br br I watched the place where they had scaled the height, br The height whereon they bled so bitterly br Throughout each day and through each blistered night br I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too br I heard the epics of a thousand trees, br A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew br The waves were very old, the trees were wise: br The dead would be remembered evermore- br The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies, br And slept in great battalions by the shore.