Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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IN clouds descending, in midnight sleep, of many a face of
anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—of that inde-
scribable look;

Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,
I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, the fields and the mountains;

Of the skies, so beauteous after the storm—and at night the
moon so unearthly bright,

Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches
and gather the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long have they pass'd, long lapsed—faces and trenches and
fields;

Long through the carnage I moved with a callous compos-
ure—or away from the fallen,

Onward I sped at the time—But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream.

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