---

Walt Whitman - Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The Mother Of All
Work rating: Low

PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-
         fields gazing;
(As the last gun ceased—but the scent of the powder-smoke linger`d 
As she call`d to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk`d:
Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my
         sons! lose not an atom;
And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood;
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,
And all you essences of soil and growth—and you, my rivers` depths;
And you, mountain sides—and the woods where my dear children`s
         blood, trickling, redden`d;
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future
         trees,                                                       


My dead absorb—my young men`s beautiful bodies absorb—and their
         precious, precious, precious blood;
Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a
         year hence,
In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence;
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings—give
         my immortal heroes;
Exhale me them centuries hence—breathe me their breath—let not an
         atom be lost;
O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!
Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.