A Voice From Death

________________________________________________
Title:     A Voice From Death
Author: Walt Whitman [More Titles by Whitman]

A voice from Death, solemn and strange, in all his sweep and power,

With sudden, indescribable blow--towns drown'd--humanity by thousands slain,

The vaunted work of thrift, goods, dwellings, forge, street, iron bridge,

Dash'd pell-mell by the blow--yet usher'd life continuing on,

(Amid the rest, amid the rushing, whirling, wild debris,

A suffering woman saved--a baby safely born!)

Although I come and unannounc'd, in horror and in pang,

In pouring flood and fire, and wholesale elemental crash, (this voice so solemn, strange,)

I too a minister of Deity.

Yea, Death, we bow our faces, veil our eyes to thee,

We mourn the old, the young untimely drawn to thee,

The fair, the strong, the good, the capable,

The household wreck'd, the husband and the wife, the engulfed forger in his forge,

The corpses in the whelming waters and the mud,

The gather'd thousands to their funeral mounds, and thousands never found or gather'd.

Then after burying, mourning the dead,

(Faithful to them found or unfound, forgetting not, bearing the past, here new musing,)

A day--a passing moment or an hour--America itself bends low,

Silent, resign'd, submissive.

War, death, cataclysm like this, America,

Take deep to thy proud prosperous heart.

E'en as I chant, lo! out of death, and out of ooze and slime,

The blossoms rapidly blooming, sympathy, help, love,

From West and East, from South and North and over sea,

Its hot-spurr'd hearts and hands humanity to human aid moves on;

And from within a thought and lesson yet.

Thou ever-darting Globe! through Space and Air!

Thou waters that encompass us!

Thou that in all the life and death of us, in action or in sleep!

Thou laws invisible that permeate them and all,

Thou that in all, and over all, and through and under all, incessant!

Thou! thou! the vital, universal, giant force resistless, sleepless, calm,

Holding Humanity as in thy open hand, as some ephemeral toy,

How ill to e'er forget thee!

For I too have forgotten,

(Wrapt in these little potencies of progress, politics, culture, wealth, inventions, civilization,)

Have lost my recognition of your silent ever-swaying power, ye mighty, elemental throes,

In which and upon which we float, and every one of us is buoy'd.

[The end]
Walt Whitman's poem: Voice From Death

________________________________________________



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN