BY the City Dead-House, by the gate, <br /> As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor, <br /> I curious pause--for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute <br /> brought; <br /> Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd--it lies on the damp brick <br /> pavement; <br /> The divine woman, her body--I see the Body--I look on it alone, <br /> That house once full of passion and beauty--all else I notice not; <br /> Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors <br /> morbific impress me; <br /> But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house-- <br /> that ruin! <br /> That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built! <br /> Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or <br /> all the old high-spired cathedrals; 10 <br /> That little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house! <br /> Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul! <br /> Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips; <br /> Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you, <br /> Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd! <br /> House of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house! <br /> dead, even then; <br /> Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house--but dead, dead, dead.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-city-dead-house/
