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Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900.

199. Whispers of Heavenly Death


WHISPERS of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear; 
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals; 
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low; 
Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing; 
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?)         5
  
I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses; 
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing; 
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star, 
Appearing and disappearing. 
  
(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:  10
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable, 
Some Soul is passing over.) 


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