Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 305

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In midnight sleep of many a face of anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded, (of that indescribable look,)

Of the dead on their backs with arms extended wide,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of Nature, fields and mountains,

Of skies so beauteous after a storm, and at night the moon so

unearthly bright,

Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and

gather the heaps,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long have they pass’d, faces and trenches and fields,

Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure, or away

from the fallen,

Onward I sped at the time — but now of their forms at night,

I dream, I dream, I dream.