tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723709701684173708.post4457036447365717795..comments2024-03-28T17:55:31.180-04:00Comments on The Gossips of Rivertown: 150 Years Ago: April 16, 1865Carole Osterinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16010623982526286408noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5723709701684173708.post-52901282457414105422015-04-17T06:02:59.949-04:002015-04-17T06:02:59.949-04:001
Walt Whitman, When Lilacs last in the dooryard ...1<br /><br />Walt Whitman, When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd<br />(On the Death of President Lincoln) <br /><br />When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,<br />And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,<br />I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.<br /><br />Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,<br />Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,<br />And thought of him I love.<br /><br />....<br />3<br />In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,<br />Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,<br />With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,<br />With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,<br />With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,<br />A sprig with its flower I break.<br /><br />....<br />5<br />Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,<br />Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris,<br />Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,<br />Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,<br />Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,<br />Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,<br />Night and day journeys a coffin.<br /><br />6<br />Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,<br />Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,<br />With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,<br />With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing,<br />With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,<br />With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,<br />With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,<br />With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,<br />With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin,<br />The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,<br />With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang,<br />Here, coffin that slowly passes,<br />I give you my sprig of lilac.<br />Byrne Fone https://www.blogger.com/profile/11913646848760720991noreply@blogger.com