Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.
This poem, in memory of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and lands," and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last as long as the memory of Lincoln.
XII.
OLD AGE.
Walt Whitman is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him revengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of life,
His jocund heart still beating in his breast,
he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in his cheeks. He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, "on velvet." He is enjoying "old age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days."
He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he goes he utters thanks:
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,
For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother
dear you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends.)
For all my days—not those of peace alone the days of war the same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat—for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown—or young or old—countless, unspecified, readers belov'd,
We never met, and ne'er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long.)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men—devoted, hardy men—who've
forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere
I go, to life's war's chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—the
foremost leaders, captains of the soul).