Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

contents | previous | next

IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—(of that
indescribable look,)

Of the dead on their backs with arms extended wide,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;

Of skies, so beauteous after a 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, long have they pass'd—faces and trenches and
fields;

Where through the carnage I moved with a callous com-
posure—or away from the fallen,

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

I dream, I dream, I dream.

contents | previous | next