The Complete Works of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

      Thanks in old age — thanks ere I go,

       For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life,

       For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear — you,

       father — you, brothers, sisters, friends,)

       For all my days — not those of peace alone — the days of war the same,

       For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,

       For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet appreciation,

       (You distant, dim unknown — or young or old — countless, unspecified,

       readers belov’d,

       We never met, and neer shall meet — and yet our souls embrace, long,

       close and long;)

       For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books — for colors, forms,

       For all the brave strong men — devoted, hardy men — who’ve forward

       sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands

       For braver, stronger, more devoted men — (a special laurel ere I go,

       to life’s war’s chosen ones,

       The cannoneers of song and thought — the great artillerists — the

       foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)

       As soldier from an ended war return’d — As traveler out of myriads,

       to the long procession retrospective,

       Thanks — joyful thanks! — a soldier’s, traveler’s thanks.

Life and Death

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      The two old, simple problems ever intertwined,

       Close home, elusive, present, baffled, grappled.

       By each successive age insoluble, pass’d on,

       To ours to-day — and we pass on the same.

The Voice of the Rain

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      And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,

       Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

       I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,

       Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,

       Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form’d, altogether changed, and

       yet the same,

       I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,

       And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;

       And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,

       and make pure and beautify it;

       (For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,

       Reck’d or unreck’d, duly with love returns.)

Soon Shall the Winter’s Foil Be Here

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      Soon shall the winter’s foil be here;

       Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt — A little while,

       And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and

       growth — a thousand forms shall rise

       From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.

      Thine eyes, ears — all thy best attributes — all that takes cognizance

       of natural beauty,

       Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the

       delicate miracles of earth,

       Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,

       The arbutus under foot, the willow’s yellow-green, the blossoming

       plum and cherry;

       With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs — the

       flitting bluebird;

       For such the scenes the annual play brings on.

While Not the Past Forgetting

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      While not the past forgetting,

       To-day, at least, contention sunk entire — peace, brotherhood uprisen;

       For sign reciprocal our Northern, Southern hands,

       Lay on the graves of all dead soldiers, North or South,

       (Nor for the past alone — for meanings to the future,)

       Wreaths of roses and branches of palm.

The Dying Veteran

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      Amid these days of order, ease, prosperity,

       Amid the current songs of beauty, peace, decorum,

       I cast a reminiscence — (likely ‘twill offend you,

       I heard it in my boyhood;) — More than a generation since,

       A queer old savage man, a fighter under Washington himself,

       (Large, brave, cleanly, hot-blooded, no talker, rather spiritualistic,

       Had fought in the ranks — fought well — had been all through the

       Revolutionary war,)

       Lay dying — sons, daughters, church-deacons, lovingly tending him,

       Sharping their sense, their ears, towards his murmuring, half-caught words:

       “Let me return again to my war-days,

       To the sights and scenes — to forming the line of battle,

       To the scouts ahead reconnoitering,

       To the cannons, the grim artillery,

       To the galloping aides, carrying orders,

       To the wounded, the fallen, the heat, the suspense,

       The perfume strong, the smoke, the deafening noise;

       Away with your life of peace! — your joys of peace!

       Give me my old wild battle-life again!”

Stronger Lessons

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      Have you learn’d lessons only of those who admired you, and were

       tender with you, and stood aside for you?

       Have you not learn’d great lessons from those who reject you, and

       brace themselves against you? or who treat you with contempt,

       or dispute the passage with you?

A Prairie Sunset