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Walt Whitman: Poems

Drum Taps: Survivors


How solemn, as one by one,

As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I

stand;

As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the

masks;

As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you

are;--

How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to

you!

I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul.

O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,

Nor the bayonet stab what you really are.

--The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best,

Waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill,

Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!