In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
'Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
'Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.
Whitman
_
1.
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath
On the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking
Down a new-made double grave.
2.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
3.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles;
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
4.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.
5.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropped together,
And the double grave awaits them.
6.
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
7.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
'Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.
8.
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me!
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
9.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
_SURVIVORS. _
How solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I
stand;
As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the
masks;
As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you
are;--
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to
you!
I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul.
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are.
--The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!
_HYMN OF DEAD SOLDIERS. _
1.
1.
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath
On the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking
Down a new-made double grave.
2.
Lo! the moon ascending!
Up from the east, the silvery round moon;
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
3.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles;
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
4.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring;
And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.
5.
For the son is brought with the father;
In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell;
Two veterans, son and father, dropped together,
And the double grave awaits them.
6.
Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive;
And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
7.
In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
'Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.
8.
O strong dead-march, you please me!
O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me!
O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
9.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music;
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
_SURVIVORS. _
How solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I
stand;
As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the
masks;
As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you
are;--
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to
you!
I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul.
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are.
--The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!
_HYMN OF DEAD SOLDIERS. _
1.
