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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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THE CITY DEAD-HOUSE.
BY the city dead-house by the gate, |
As idly sauntering wending my way from the clangor, |
I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
brought,
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Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd, it lies on the damp brick
pavement,
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The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone, |
That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not, |
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me,
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But the house alone—that wondrous house—that delicate fair
house—that ruin!
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That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever
built!
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Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all
the old high-spired cathedrals,
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That little house alone more than them all—poor, desperate
house!
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Fair, fearful wreck—tenement of a soul—itself a soul, |
Unclaim'd, avoided house—take one breath from my tremulous
lips,
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Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you, |
Dead house of love—house of madness and sin, crumbled,
crush'd,
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House of life, erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house,
dead even then,
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Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house—but dead, dead,
dead.
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