Walt Whitman: Poems

Drum Taps: Reconciliation

Word over all, beautiful as the sky!

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


That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly, softly wash

again, and ever again, this soiled 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;

I bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.