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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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THOUGHT.
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;
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Of certain ships—how they sail from port with flying
streamers and wafted kisses—and that is the
last of them!
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Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the
President,
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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,
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Of the veil'd tableau—Women gather'd together on
deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that
draws so close—O the moment!
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A huge sob—a few bubbles—the white foam spirting
up—and then the women gone,
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Sinking there while the passionless wet flows on—And
I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone?
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Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so? |
Is only matter triumphant? |
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