The silent dead go marching down,
With not a single banner flown;
But if you only bend your ear
Their funeral marches you can hear.
They step to time; the march is slow,
In deep, thick columns as they go;
And over all the still, thick air
Falls with a silence everywhere.
The living meet them on their way,
With banners flying, and display;
Quick step and sounds of drum and fife
Lead out the teaming ranks of life.
You hear the shout of quick command,
You see the lifting of a hand;
But ever on they press to see
The hidden goals of things to be.
The armies of the quick and dead
They pass each other; one with tread
Joyous to meet the coming fight
That looms before their eager sight.
The other marches deep and slow,
But ever voiceless as they go,
With not a single banner flown,
And not a single trumpet blown.