SPIRIT whose work is done! spirit of dreadful hours! <br /> Ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; <br /> Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering <br /> pressing;) <br /> Spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene! Electric <br /> spirit! <br /> That with muttering voice, through the war now closed, like a <br /> tireless phantom flitted, <br /> Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the <br /> drum; <br /> --Now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, <br /> reverberates round me; <br /> As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles; <br /> While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders; 10 <br /> While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders; <br /> While those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them, appearing in the <br /> distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, <br /> Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro, to the right and left, <br /> Evenly, lightly rising and falling, as the steps keep time; <br /> --Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death <br /> next day; <br /> Touch my mouth, ere you depart--press my lips close! <br /> Leave me your pulses of rage! bequeath them to me! fill me with <br /> currents convulsive! <br /> Let them scorch and blister out of my chants, when you are gone; <br /> Let them identify you to the future, in these songs.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spirit-whose-work-is-done/
