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Leaves of Grass (1881-82)
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PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING.
PENSIVE on her dead gazing I heard the Mother of All, |
Desperate on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-
fields gazing,
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(As the last gun ceased, but the scent of the powder-smoke
linger'd,)
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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,
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And you streams absorb them well, taking their dear blood, |
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly
impalpable,
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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,
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And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, |
My dead absorb or South or North—my young men's bodies
absorb, and their precious precious blood,
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Which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many
a year hence,
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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,
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Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not
an atom be lost,
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O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet! |
Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence. |
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