Читать книгу The Complete Works of Walt Whitman - Walt Whitman - Страница 365

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Thanks in old age — thanks ere I go,

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life,

For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear — you,

father — you, brothers, sisters, friends,)

For all my days — not those of peace alone — the days of war the same,

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,

For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet appreciation,

(You distant, dim unknown — or young or old — countless, unspecified,

readers belov’d,

We never met, and neer shall meet — and yet our souls embrace, long,

close and long;)

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books — for colors, forms,

For all the brave strong men — devoted, hardy men — who’ve forward

sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands

For braver, stronger, more devoted men — (a special laurel ere I go,

to life’s war’s chosen ones,

The cannoneers of song and thought — the great artillerists — the

foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)

As soldier from an ended war return’d — As traveler out of myriads,

to the long procession retrospective,

Thanks — joyful thanks! — a soldier’s, traveler’s thanks.