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Taps

by John Kent
Old Glory rests
in its place,
the flagpole bare
now keeps the night.
The bugle sounds
those haunting notes,
as lights go out,
embrace the dark.

How many times
that stirring call,
o'er crosses standing
on green grass;
above Old Glory's
last caress,
of sons and daughters
now at rest.

The bugle calls
for God to bless,
strains of taps
roam Heaven's fields.
And over barracks'
darkened halls,
bring forth the night
and wistful dreams.



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