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PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING, I HEARD THE MOTHER OF ALL.

PENSIVE, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering          the battle-fields gazing;

(As the last gun ceased—but the scent of the poweder-          smoke linger'd;)

As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she          stalk'd:

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Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried—I charge you,          lose not my sons! lose not an atom;

And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear          blood;

And you local spots, and you airs that swim above          lightly

And all you essences of soil and growth—and you, my          rivers' depths;

And you, mountain sides—and the woods where my          dear children's blood, trickling, redden'd;

And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all          future trees,

My dead absorb—my young men's bodies          absorb—and their precious, precious, precious          blood;

Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again          give me, many a year hence,

In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centu-          ries hence;

In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my          darlings—give my immortal heroes;

Exhale me them centuries hence—breathe me their          breath—let not an atom be lost;

O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an          aroma sweet!

Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries          hence.

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