Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, - Walt Whitman

The words of my book are nothing, the drift of it everything.

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

Oh while I live, to be the ruler of life, not a slave, to meet life as a powerful conqueror, and nothing exterior to me will ever take command of me

HOW solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty — as the men file by where I stand;
As the faces, the masks appear — as I glance at the faces, studying the masks;
(As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you are;)
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to you;
I see behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul;
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are:
... The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting, secure and content, which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!

O sight of pity, shame and dole!
O fearful thought - a convict soul.