: The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman by Whitman Walt - Poetry

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never be better , While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, The only son is dead.

A TWILIGHT SONG

As I sit in twilight late alone by the flickering oak-flame, Musing on long-pass'd war-scenes--of the countless buried unknown soldiers, Of the vacant names, as unindented air's and sea's--the unreturn'd, The brief truce after battle, with grim burial-squads, and the deep-fill'd trenches Of gather'd dead from all America, North, South, East, West, whence they came up, From wooded Maine, New-England's farms, from fertile Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio, From the measureless West, Virginia, the South, the Carolinas, Texas ; You million unwrit names all, all--you dark bequest from all the war, A special verse for you--a flash of duty long neglected--your mystic roll strangely gather'd here, Each name recall'd by me from out the darkness and death's ashes, Henceforth to be, deep, deep within my heart recording, for many a future year, Your mystic roll entire of unknown names, or North or South, Embalm'd with love in this twilight song.

A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray 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, Gray 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-gray'd 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 is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME

Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me! Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me, A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me, Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself, Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled, And sullen hymns of defeat?

FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE

First O songs for a prelude, Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city, How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang, How you sprang--how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand, How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead, How you led to the war , How Manhattan drum-taps led.

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