Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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AS I ponder'd in silence,

Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,

A Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect,

Terrible in beauty, age, and power,

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The genius of poets of old lands,

As to me directing like flame its eyes,

With finger pointing to many immortal songs,

And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said;

Knowest thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring
bards?

And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,

The making of perfect soldiers?

Be it so, then I answer'd,

I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and
greater one than any,

Waged in my book with varying fortune—with fight, ad-
vance, and retreat—Victory deferr'd and wavering,

(Yet, methinks, certain, or as good as certain, at the last,)
—The field the world;

For life and death—for the Body, and for the eternal Soul,

Lo! I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,

I, above all, promote brave soldiers .

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