Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
187. Ashes of Soldiers
Again a verse for sake of you,You soldiers in the ranks—you Volunteers,
Who bravely fighting, silent fell,
To fill unmention’d graves.
A
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of armies.
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they come,
And silently gather round me.
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,
With sabres drawn and glist’ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave horsemen!
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)
Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.
Draw close, but speak not.
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.