Leaves of Grass

To those who’ve fail’d, in aspiration vast, To unnam’d soldiers fallen in front on the lead, To calm, devoted engineers—to over-ardent travelers—to pilots on their ships, To many a lofty song and picture without recognition—I’d rear laurel-cover’d monument, High, high above the rest—To all cut off before their time, Possess’d by some strange spirit of fire, Quench’d by an early death.