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,

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

Of certain ships—how they sail from port with flying
streamers and wafted kisses—and that is the
last of them!

Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the
President,

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!

A 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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