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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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THE WOUND-DRESSER.
1
AN old man bending I come among new faces, |
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, |
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love
me,
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(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge
relentless war,
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But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd
myself,
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To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the
dead;)
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Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these
chances,
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Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was
equally brave;)
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Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, |
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? |
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, |
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest
remains?
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2
O maidens and young men I love and that love me, |
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your
talking recalls,
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Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and
dust,
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In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in
the rush of successful charge,
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Enter the captur'd works—yet lo, like a swift-running river they
fade,
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Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers' perils or
soldiers' joys,
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(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I
was content.)
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But in silence, in dreams' projections, |
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, |
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off
the sand,
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With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up
there,
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Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) |
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, |
Straight and swift to my wounded I go, |
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, |
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, |
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, |
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, |
To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, |
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, |
Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd
again.
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With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, |
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, |
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One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew
you,
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Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that
would save you.
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3
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) |
The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage
away,)
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The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through
I examine,
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Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life
struggles hard,
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(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! |
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, |
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter
and blood,
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Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and side-
falling head,
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His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the
bloody stump,
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And has not yet look'd on it. |
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, |
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, |
And the yellow-blue countenance see. |
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, |
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sicken-
ing, so offensive,
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While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and
pail.
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I am faithful, I do not give out, |
The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, |
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my
breast a fire, a burning flame.)
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4
Thus in silence in dreams' projections, |
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, |
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, |
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, |
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Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, |
(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and
rested,
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Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) |
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