A whisper flies to the empty sleeve
Pinned on the braidless coat,
And a rumor flushes the scarred young cheek
Of a man in butternut.

The riders go past fenceless fields.
They meet by the ruined wall.
And the gaunt horses crop and stray
While voices mutter and drawl.

The crow starts from the blackberry bush,
But the windowless house won't tell.
Darkness watches the ravished gate.
No hand swings the fallen bell.

Till roads are white with columns
Of phantom cavalry
That move as by the dead's cool will
Without guns or infantry.

And the hoofbeats of many horsemen
Stop and call from the grave:
Remember, I was your master;
Remember, you were my slave.

At midnight a town's four corners
Wake to the whistles' keening;
The march of the dead is a long march.
Certain its meaning.

Something for grandfathers to tell
Boys who clamor and climb.
And were you there, and did you ride
With the men of that old time?