But why, Walt Whitman, loveliest serenader Of "sane and sacred Death," the veiled "Dark Mother," From dread of dust our most assured dissuader, Why in this massive tomb your own dust smother? Why lavish thousands of your hidden treasure On that grim prison, you the gipsy lover Of leaves of grass in every dancing measure Caprices of their piper winds discover? Comrade of comrades, Child of Adam, lonely Your body bears its changes, walled from fusion Of friendly earth and dew, companioned only By grandeur, Death's ironical delusion. April's fresh voice, chanting her new Te Deum, Beats vainly on that sullen mausoleum. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WORKING GIRLS by CARL SANDBURG FROM AN EXCAVATION ON THE WARRIOR RIVER by ESTHER BARRETT ARGO VELLEN THE TREE by WILLIAM BARNES THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS by MATHILDE BLIND SMALL THINGS by BERENICE K. BOSS |