Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 188

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A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,

As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,

As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,

Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,

Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious I halt and silent stand,

Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first

just lift the blanket;

Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair,

and flesh all sunken about the eyes?

Who are you my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step — and who are you my child and darling?

Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third — a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of

beautiful yellow-white ivory;

Young man I think I know you — I think this face is the face of the

Christ himself,

Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.