PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All, <br /> Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle- <br /> fields gazing; <br /> (As the last gun ceased--but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd;) <br /> As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd: <br /> Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried--I charge you, lose not my <br /> sons! lose not an atom; <br /> And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood; <br /> And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly, <br /> And all you essences of soil and growth--and you, my rivers' depths; <br /> And you, mountain sides--and the woods where my dear children's <br /> blood, trickling, redden'd; <br /> And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future <br /> trees, 10 <br /> My dead absorb--my young men's beautiful bodies absorb--and their <br /> precious, precious, precious blood; <br /> Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a <br /> year hence, <br /> In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence; <br /> In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings--give <br /> my immortal heroes; <br /> Exhale me them centuries hence--breathe me their breath--let not an <br /> atom be lost; <br /> O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet! <br /> Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pensive-on-her-dead-gazing-i-heard-the-mother-of/
