Published Works

Books by Whitman

contents | previous | next

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,

As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,

I curious pause—for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead
prostitute brought;

Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd, it lies on the
damp brick pavement;

The divine woman, her body—I see the Body—I look
on it alone,

That house once full of passion and beauty—all else I
notice not;

Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet,
nor odors morbific impress me;

But the house alone—that wondrous house—that de-
licate fair house—that ruin!

That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwel-
lings ever built!

Or white-domed Capitol itself, with magestic figure sur-
mounted—or all the old high-spired cathedrals,

That little house alone, more than them all—poor,
desperate house!

Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!

Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my
tremulous lips;

Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,

Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crum-
bled! crush'd!

House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but
ah, poor house! dead, even then;

Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house—but
dead, dead, dead.

contents | previous | next

Distributed under a Creative Commons License. Ed Folsom & Kenneth M. Price, editors.