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