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Leaves of Grass (1881-82)
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FROM FAR DAKOTA'S CAñONS.
June 25, 1876.
FROM far Dakota's cañons, |
Lands of the wild ravine, the dusky Sioux, the lonesome stretch,
the silence,
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Haply to-day a mournful wail, haply a trumpet-note for heroes. |
The Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal environment, |
The cavalry companies fighting to the last in sternest heroism, |
In the midst of their little circle, with their slaughter'd horses for
breastworks,
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The fall of Custer and all his officers and men. |
Continues yet the old, old legend of our race, |
The loftiest of life upheld by death, |
The ancient banner perfectly maintain'd, |
O lesson opportune, O how I welcome thee! |
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Lone, sulky, through the time's thick murk looking in vain for light,
for hope,
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From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof, |
(The sun there at the centre though conceal'd, |
Electric life forever at the centre,) |
Breaks forth a lightning flash. |
Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle, |
I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in front, bearing a
bright sword in thy hand,
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Now ending well in death the splendid fever of thy deeds, |
(I bring no dirge for it or thee, I bring a glad triumphal sonnet,) |
Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most desperate, most glorious, |
After thy many battles in which never yielding up a gun or a color, |
Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers, |
Thou yieldest up thyself. |
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