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Title: Drum-Taps (). Author(s): Walt Whitman. Date: Whitman Archive ID: ppp​ Source: Transcribed from our own digital images of the original.
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Such was the man to whom nothing was unclean, nothing too trivial except "pale poetlings lisping cadenzas piano ," who then apparently thronged New York to take to himself. Intensest, indomitablest of individualists, he exulted in all that appertains to that forked radish, Man. This contentious soul of mine, he exclaims ecstatically; Viva: the attack!

I have been born the same as the war was born; I lull nobody, and you will never understand me: maybe I am non-literary and un-decorous I have written impromptu, and shall let it all go at that. Let me at least be human!

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Human, indeed, he was, a tender, all-welcoming host of Everyman, of his idolized if somewhat overpowering American democracy. Man in the street, in his swarms, poor crazed faces in the State asylum, prisoners in Sing Sing, prostitute, whose dead body reminded him not of a lost soul, but only of a sad, forlorn, and empty house—it mattered not; he opened his heart to them, one and all. O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend. This was the secret of his tender, unassuming ministrations. He had none of that shrinking timidity, that fear of intrusion, that uneasiness in the presence of the tragic and the pitiful, which so often numb and oppress those who would willingly give themselves and their best to the needy and suffering, but whose intellect misgives them.

He was that formidable phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran good sense. Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous preparation for his visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance as possible. Armed with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills the wounded, he found, were often "broke," and the sight of a little money "helped their spirits" , with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a twist of good strong green tea, for another a good home-made rice-pudding, or a jar of sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry syrup, a small bottle of horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple, he would "make friends.


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He would talk, or write letters—passionate love-letters, too—or sit silent, in mute and tender kindness. Such things are gloomy—yet there is a text, 'God doeth all things well'—the meaning of which, after due time, appears to the soul. He forced nothing on these friends of a day, so many of them near their last farewell. A poor wasted young man asks him to read a chapter in the New Testament, and Whitman chooses that which describes Christ's Crucifixion.

He "ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ rose again. I read very slowly, for he was feeble. It pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. I said 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, yet maybe, it is the same thing. Through them we reach to an understanding of a poet who chose not signal and beautiful episodes out of the past, nor the rare moments of existence, for theme, but took all life, within and around him in vast bustling America, for his poetic province.

Like a benign barbaric sun he surveys the world, ever at noon. I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there, he cries in the "Song of Myself. He could not despise anything, not even his fellow-poets, because he himself was everything. His verse sometimes seems mere verbiage, but it is always a higgledy-piggledy, Santa Claus bagful of things.

And he could penetrate to the essential reality. He tells in his "Drum-Taps" how one daybreak he arose in camp, and saw three still forms stretched out in the eastern radiance, how with light fingers he just lifted the blanket from each cold face in turn: the first elderly, gaunt, and grim—Who are you, my dear comrade?

The next with cheeks yet blooming—Who are you, sweet boy? The third—Young man, I think I know you. I think this face is the face of the Christ Himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

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True poetry focuses experience, not merely transmits it. It must redeem it for ever from transitoriness and evanescence. Whitman incontinently pours experience out in a Niagara-like cataract. But in spite of his habitual publicity he was at heart of a "shy, brooding, impassioned devotional type"; in spite of his self-conscious, arrogant virility, he was to the end of his life an entranced child. He came into the world, saw and babbled. His deliberate method of writing could have had no other issue.

A subject would occur to him, a kind of tag. Spring up, O city! Fear not! Behold me! O to hear you call the sailors and the soldiers! O to hear the tramp, tramp, of a million answering men! O the ships they arm with joy! O to see you peering down on the sailors on the decks!

Flag like the eyes of women. Who are you, my dear comrade? Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? Give me interminable eyes! Let me see new ones every day! Give me such shows! O such for me! O an intense life! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer! Sons of the Mother of All! O lands! Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers? Or by an agreement on a paper? YEAR of meteors! Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!

YEARS of the unperform'd! Are all nations communing?

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Is humanity forming, en-masse? Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me! I know not whether I sleep or wake! YEAR that trembled and reel'd beneath me! And sullen hymns of defeat? Buglers off in my armies! My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! Phantoms, welcome, divine and tender! Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.

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Dearest comrades! Perfume therefore my chant, O love! Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers.

Perfume all! O love! O chant! Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain, That I exhale love from me wherever I go, For the sake of all dead soldiers. THE unbounded sea! Superb-faced Manhattan!


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