Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1891-92)

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT.

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I

shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on

the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my

way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son

of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the

moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-

field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my

chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest

comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my

soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your

death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall

surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn

appear'd,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and care-

fully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his

grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field

dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth

responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day

brighten'd,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his

blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

RECONCILIATION.

WORD over all, beautiful as the sky,

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be

utterly lost,

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly

wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world;

For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,

I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw

near,

Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the

coffin.