As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, <br />To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas autumn,) <br />I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; <br />Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all I could understand,) <br />The halt of a midday hour, when up! no time to lose--yet this sign left, <br />On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, <br />Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. <br /> <br />Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, <br />Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, <br />Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in the crowded street, <br />Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, come the inscription rude in Virginia's woods. <br />Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-toilsome-i-wander-d-virginia-s-woods/
