Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
complete book, e-book

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2

 Come forward O my soul, and let the rest retire,
 Listen, lose not, it is toward thee they tend,
 Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
 For thee they sing and dance O soul.
 
 A festival song,
 The duet of the bridegroom and the bride, a marriage-march,
 With lips of love, and hearts of lovers fill'd to the brim with love,
 The red-flush'd cheeks and perfumes, the cortege swarming full of
 friendly faces young and old,
 To flutes' clear notes and sounding harps' cantabile.
 
 Now loud approaching drums,
 Victoria! seest thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying?
 the rout of the baffled?
 Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?
 
 (Ah soul, the sobs of women, the wounded groaning in agony,
 The hiss and crackle of flames, the blacken'd ruins, the embers of cities,
 The dirge and desolation of mankind.)
 
 Now airs antique and mediaeval fill me,
 I see and hear old harpers with their harps at Welsh festivals,
 I hear the minnesingers singing their lays of love,
 I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the middle ages.
 
 Now the great organ sounds,
 Tremulous, while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,
 On which arising rest, and leaping forth depend,
 All (...)
(......)