 Dourage for Two Veterans by Walt Whitman. Red for LibriVox.org by Catherine Eastman for Memorial Day 2007. In Redwood City, California. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath on the pavement here and there beyond. It is looking down a new-made double grave. Low, the moon ascending, up from the east the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly, phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the Father. In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead march and wraps me. In the eastern sky, up buoying, the sorrowful, vast phantom moves illumined, tis some mother's large, transparent face in heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march, you please me, O moon immense, with your silvery face, you soothe me. O my soldiers twain, O my veterans passing to burial, what I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon, I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming, full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding. As with voices and with tears, I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through, for the sun is brought with the father, in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight, or the pavement, quite has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky at Boying, the sorrowful, vast phantom moves illumined, to some mother's large, transparent face, in heaven, brighter growing. Oh, strong dead march, you please me. Oh, moon immense, with your silvery face, you soothe me. Oh, my soldiers twain. Oh, my veterans, passing to burial. What I have, I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music. And my heart, oh, my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. by J. C. Guan for Memorial Day, 2007. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished sabbath. I'm the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, down in you-made double grave. Low the moon ascending up from the east, silvery round moon, beautiful of the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady roaring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father, and the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong deadmarch unwraps me. In the eastern sky up boying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, to some mother's large transparent face, in heaven brighter growing. Oh, strong deadmarch, you please me. Oh, moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me. Oh, my soldiers twain. Oh, my veterans passing to burial. What I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music. And my heart, oh, my soldiers, my veterans. My heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dirt for Two Veterans by Walt Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage for Memorial Day 2007. The last sunbeam likely falls from the finished sabbath on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father, in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, drop together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight o'er the pavement quite as faded, and the strong deadmarch enraps me. In the eastern sky up-boying the sorrowful, vast phantom moves illumined, to some mother's large, transparent face in heaven brighter growing. Oh, strong deadmarch, you please me. Oh, moon, immense with your silvery face, you soothe me. Oh, my soldier's twain. Oh, my veteran's passing to burial. What I have, I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music. And my heart, oh, my soldier's, my veteran's. My heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dirge for Two Veterans by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett for Memorial Day 2007. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking down a new made double grave. Low, the moon ascending, up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father, in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, drop together, and the double grave awaits them. Now, nearer blow the bugles, and the drum strikes more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong deadmarch enraps me. In the eastern sky, up-boying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves elumed, to some mother's large, transparent face and heaven brighter growing. O strong deadmarch, you please me. O moon immense with your silvery face, you soothe me. O my soldier's twain, O my veteran's, passing to burial. What I have, I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music. And my heart, O my soldier's, my veteran's, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles. All the channels of the city streets, they're flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow at the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the Father, in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight o'er the pavement quiet has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky a boeing, the sorrowful vast phantom moves ill-humoured, tis some mother's large, transparent face, in heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march, you please me, O moon immense, with your silvery face, you soothe me. O my soldiers twain, O my veterans passing to burial, what I have also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles. All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father, and the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky, up buoying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, tis some mother's large, transparent face, and heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march, you please me. O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me. O my soldier's twain. O my veterans, passing to burial. What I have, I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music. In my heart, O my soldier's, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished sabbath. On the pavement, here, and there beyond, it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense, and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father, in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer below the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky up boying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, to some mother's large transparent face in heaven brighter growing. Oh strong dead march, you please me, oh moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me. Oh my soldiers twain, oh my veterans, passing to burial, what I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart. Oh my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. DERGE FOR TWO VETERANS by Walt Whitman Read for LibriVox.org by Mary Mack from Memorial Day 2007 The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath. On the pavement here, and there beyond, it is looking down a new made double grave. Low, the moon ascending, up from the east, the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full keyed bugles. All the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through, for the sun is brought with the father. In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky up boying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, tis some mother's large, transparent face in heaven brighter growing. Oh strong dead march, you please me. Oh moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me. Oh my soldier's twain, oh my veteran's passing to burial, what I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, oh my soldier's, my veteran's, gives you love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dirge for Two Veterans by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Mel Mann for Memorial Day, 2007. The last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished Sabbath. On the pavement here and there beyond it is looking down a new made double grave. Low the moon is sending up from the east the silvery round moon. Beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding and the small drums steady wearing, and every blow the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. But the sun is brought with the father, and the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell. Two veterans, son and father, drop together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite as faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky up booing the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, to some other's large transparent face in heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march you please me, O moon immense, with your silver face you soothe me, O my soldiers twain, O my veterans passing to burial, what I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and drums give you music, and my heart, O soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS by Walt Whitman Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley For Memorial Day 2007 The last sudden beam lightly falls from the finished sabbath. On the pavement here, and there beyond, it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east the silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles. All the channels of the city streets they are flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through, for the sun is brought with the father. In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky up-boying the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, it is some mother's large transparent face, in heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march you please me, O moon immense with your silvery face, you soothe me, O my soldier's twain, O my veterans passing to burial, what I have I also give you, the moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldier's, my veterans, my heart gives you love. The last sunbeam likely falls from the finished Sabbath, on the pavement here, and there beyond, it is looking down a new-made double grave. Low the moon ascending, up from the east a silvery round moon, beautiful over the housetops, ghastly phantom moon, immense and silent moon. I see a sad procession, and I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets there flooding, as with voices and with tears. I hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. For the sun is brought with the father. In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans, son and father, dropped together, and the double grave awaits them. Now nearer below the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight or the pavement quite as faded, and the strong dead march enraps me. In the eastern sky at Boeing, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, to some mother's large transparent face, in heaven brighter growing. O strong dead march you please me, O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me, O my soldier's twain, O my veteran's passing to burial, what I have I also give you. The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldier's, my veteran's, my heart gives you love.