The Dresser
1 An old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to chil–
dren,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens
that love me;
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions,
these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the
other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again—paint the mightiest armies of
earth;
Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to
tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious
panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous,
what deepest remains?
2 O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sud–
den your talking recals;
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover’d with
sweat and dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly
shout in the rush of successful charge;
Enter the captur’d works . . . . yet lo! like a swift–
running river, they fade;
Pass and are gone, they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’
perils or soldiers’ joys;
(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the
joys, yet I was content.)
3 But in silence, in dream’s projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes
on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the
imprints off the sand,
In nature’s reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I
enter the doors—(while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of
strong heart.)
4 Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought
in;
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the
ground;
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d
hospital;
To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I
return;
To each and all, one after another, I draw near—not
one do I miss;
An attendant follows, holding a tray—he carries a
refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied,
and fill’d again.
5 I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds;
I am firm with each—the pangs are sharp, yet unavoid–
able;
One turns to me his appealing eyes—(poor boy! I
never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for
you, if that would save you.)
6 On, on I go—(open, doors of time! open, hospital
doors!)
The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand, tear not the
bandage away;)
The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through
and through, I examine;
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye,
yet life struggles hard;
(Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)
7 From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the
matter and blood;
Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curv’d neck,
and side-falling head;
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on
the bloody stump,
And has not yet looked on it.
8 I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;
But a day or two more—for see, the frame all wasted
and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
9 I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bul–
let wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so
sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding
the tray and pail.
10 I am faithful, I do not give out;
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdo–
men,
These and more I dress with impassive hand—(yet
deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)
11 Thus in silence, in dream’s projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hos–
pitals;
The hurt and the wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night—some are so
young;
Some suffer so much—I recall the experience sweet
and sad;
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have
cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
Drum-Taps
Altre opere di Walt Whitman...
