Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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HOW solemn as one by one,

As the ranks returning 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.

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