1052. TO NIGHT MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 1054. A SIGHT IN CAMP A SIGHT in camp in the daybreak grey and dim, As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless, As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital tent, Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying, Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket, Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. Curious, I halt, and silent stand; Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket: Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-greyed hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade? Then to the second I step-And who are you, my child and darling? Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man, I think I know you-I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself; Dead and divine, and brother of us all, and here again he lies. WALT WHITMAN (Drum-Taps). 1055. BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! I BEAT! beat! drums!-Blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows-through doors-burst like a force of ruthless men, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet-no happiness must he have now with his bride; Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain; So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums-so shrill you bugles blow. II Beat! beat! drums!-Blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble of wheels in the streets: Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds; No bargainers' bargains by day-no brokers or speculators-Would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums-you bugles wilder blow. III Beat! beat! drums!-Blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley-stop for no expostulation; Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer; Mind not the old man beseeching the young man ; Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties; Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, O terrible drums-so loud you bugles blow. WALT WHITMAN (Drum-Taps). 1056. DID YOU ASK DULCET RHYMES FROM ME DID you ask dulcet rhymes from me? Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow, to understand? Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand-nor am I now; -What to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I ?—therefore leave my works, And go lull yourself with what you can understand; For I lull nobody,-and you will never understand me. WALT WHITMAN (Drum-Taps). 1057. ANIMALS I THINK I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained; I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition; They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins; Not one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things; Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago; Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. WALT WHITMAN (Song of Myself). 1058. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN ! O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. WALT WHITMAN (Memories of President Lincoln). 1059. SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE SPIRIT whose work is done! spirit of dreadful hours! Ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering pressing ;) Spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene! spirit! Electric That with muttering voice, through the war now closed, like a tireless phantom flitted, Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the drum ; -Now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, reverberates round me ; As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles; Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro, to the right and left, -Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next day; Touch my mouth ere you depart-press my lips close! Leave me your pulses of rage! bequeath them to me! fill me with currents convulsive! Let them scorch and blister out of my chants, when you are gone; 1060. WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOMED WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, O ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night ! O great star disappeared-O the black murk that hides the star! In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-washed palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green. With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love With every leaf a miracle-and from this bush in the dooryard, With its delicate-coloured blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the grey debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depôt, the arriving coffin and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. |