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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE.
(Washington City, 1865.)
SPIRIT whose work is done—spirit of dreadful hours! |
Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; |
Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering
pressing,)
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Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene—electric
spirit,
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That with muttering voice through the war now closed, like a tire-
less phantom flitted,
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Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat
the drum,
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Now as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last,
reverberates round me,
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As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles, |
As the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders, |
As I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders, |
As those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them appearing in the
distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward,
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Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and
left,
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Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time; |
Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death
next day,
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Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close, |
Leave me your pulses of rage—bequeath them to me—fill me
with currents convulsive,
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Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone, |
Let them identify you to the future in these songs. |
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