.

The echo falls,

The guns were silent, and the silent hills/had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze

I gazed upon the vales and on the rills/And whispered, "What of these?" and "What of these?"

These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,/ Some crossless, with unwritten memories

Their only mourners are the moaning waves,/ Their only minstrels are the singing trees

And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully.