Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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( Washington City, 1865.)

How solemn, as one by one,

As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty—as the
men file by where I stand;

As the faces, the masks appear—as I glance at the faces,
studying the masks;

(As I glance upward out of this page, studying you,
dear friend, whoever you are;)

How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each
in the ranks, and to you;

I see behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul;

O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear
friend,

Nor the bayonet stab what you really are:

…The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the
best,

Waiting, secure and content, which the bullet could
never kill,

Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!

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