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Title: Survivors
Author: Walt Whitman [
More Titles by Whitman]
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!
[The end]
Walt Whitman's poem: Survivors
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