Читать книгу The Essential Works of Walt Whitman - Walt Whitman - Страница 228

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By the city dead-house by the gate,

As idly sauntering wending my way from the clangor,

I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought,

Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d, it lies on the damp brick pavement,

The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone,

That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not,

Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors

morbific impress me,

But the house alone — that wondrous house — that delicate fair house

— that ruin!

That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!

Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all the

old high-spired cathedrals,

That little house alone more than them all — poor, desperate house!

Fair, fearful wreck — tenement of a soul — itself a soul,

Unclaim’d, avoided house — take one breath from my tremulous lips,

Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you,

Dead house of love — house of madness and sin, crumbled, crush’d,

House of life, erewhile talking and laughing — but ah, poor house,

dead even then,

Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house — but dead, dead, dead.