Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while
the music is playing,

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To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral,
in mist, of a wreck at sea,

Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations,
founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going
down—Of the steamship Arctic going down,

Of the veil'd tableau—Women gather'd together on
deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that
draws so close—O the moment!

O the huge sob—A few bubbles—the white foam
spirting up—And then the women gone,

Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on—
And I now pondering, Are those women indeed
gone?

Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so?

Is only matter triumphant?

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