Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey and dim,

As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,

As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by
the hospital-tent,

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there,
untended lying,

Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen
blanket,

Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

² Curious, I halt, and silent stand;

Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest,
the first, just lift the blanket:

Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with
well-grey'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the
eyes?

Who are you, my dear comrade?

³ Then to the second I step—And who are you, my
child and darling?

Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?

⁴ Then to the third—a face nor child, nor old, very
calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory:

Young man, I think I know you—I think this face of
yours is the face of the Christ himself;

Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he
lies.

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