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.
ASHES
of
soldiers!
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.
Noiseless
as
mists
and
vapors,
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.
Now
sound
no
note,
O
trumpeters!
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
you
drummers—neither
at
reveille,
at
dawn,
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.
But
aside
from
these,
and
the
marts
of
wealth,
and
the
crowded
promenade,
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.
Faces
so
pale,
with
wondrous
eyes,
very
dear,
gather
closer
yet;
Draw
close,
but
speak
not.
Phantoms
of
countless
lost!
Invisible
to
the
rest,
henceforth
become
my
companions!
Follow
me
ever!
desert
me
not,
while
I
live.
Sweet
are
the
blooming
cheeks
of
the
living!
sweet
are
the
musical
voices
sounding!
But
sweet,
ah
sweet,
are
the
dead,
with
their
silent
eyes.
Dearest
comrades!
all
is
over
and
long
gone;
But
love
is
not
over—and
what
love,
O
comrades!
Perfume
from
battle-fields
rising—up
from
foetor
arising.
Perfume
therefore
my
chant,
O
love!
immortal
Love!
Give
me
to
bathe
the
memories
of
all
dead
soldiers,
Shroud
them,
embalm
them,
cover
them
all
over
with
tender
pride!
Perfume
all!
make
all
wholesome!
Make
these
ashes
to
nourish
and
blossom,
O
love!
O
chant!
solve
all,
fructify
all
with
the
last
chemistry.
Give
me
exhaustless—make
me
a
fountain,
That
I
exhale
love
from
me
wherever
I
go,
like
a
moist
perennial
dew,
For
the
ashes
of
all
dead
soldiers.
Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman, (born May 31, 1819, West Hills, Long Island, New York, U.S.—died March 26, 1892, Camden, New Jersey), American poet, journalist, and essayist whose verse collection Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, is a landmark in the history of American literature. Walt Whitman’s poetry was innovative for its verse style and for the way it challenged traditional narratives. He championed the individual soul over social conventions, presenting himself as a rough and free spirit. His poetry has continued to resonate with new generations of Americans, and he is considered a symbol of American democracy.