Thought

Walt Whitman

   AS I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is
         playing,
   To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a
         wreck at sea;
   Of certain ships--how they sail from port with flying streamers, and
         wafted kisses--and that is the last of them!
   Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the President;
   Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founder'd
         off the Northeast coast, and going down--Of the steamship
         Arctic going down,
   Of the veil'd tableau--Women gather'd together on deck, pale, heroic,
         waiting the moment that draws so close--O the moment!
   A huge sob--A few bubbles--the white foam spirting up--And then the
         women gone,
   Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on--And I now
         pondering, Are those women indeed gone?
   Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so?
   Is only matter triumphant?                                         10

Index + Blog :

Poetry Archive Index | Blog : Poem of the Day