The bugler, whoever he is, has privilege
In blowing Taps, after the lights go out,
After the marching and the memory work,
To greet the midshipman, destined for the wars
And vexed in spirit for the nation’s good,
Who listens in the dark for the sound of Taps;
And the accent of the messenger of peace
Arises from the silence like a tower,
Out of the ordered violence of the day,
And soars to silence in its purity.
The bugler, whoever he is, has privilege
In blowing Taps, to reach beyond himself,
To hail for all the death of each day’s life
And name the final work of every soldier,
With promise in the dark of rest on rest;
The sound of Taps, arising in the silence,
Breeds a deeper silence for the dead,
Damned in their first begetters, now forgiven;
Brings to the living, listening in the dark,
A final word of praise and the end of praise.
The bugler, whoever he is, has privilege
In blowing Taps: the meager man, bespectacled,
Addressed himself to duty with decorum
For all the world at a President’s funeral,
Addressed himself to a period for grief,
Stirred in the listeners half a memory
Of the messenger of peace; and the bugler’s lip
That moment lost the accustomed discipline
Of Taps, trembling for humanity,
And checked the angelic soaring of the sound.
The bugler, whoever he is, has privilege
Not to reproach himself; perhaps the angel,
When he rises to his task on the final day
And ponders the ugly brawl of history,
Will also pause to recall the dignity,
The astounding courage of the harassed creature
Man, and crack on the note that ends the world;
Perhaps he will finish sweetly, like that other,
At another judgment, who had privilege
In blowing Taps, to rise above perfection.
