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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535096" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The Mother Of All</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,<br> Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-<br> fields gazing;<br> (As the last gun ceased--but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd;)<br> As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd:<br> Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried--I charge you, lose not my<br> sons! lose not an atom;<br> And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood;<br> And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,<br> And all you essences of soil and growth--and you, my rivers' depths;<br> And you, mountain sides--and the woods where my dear children's<br> blood, trickling, redden'd;<br> And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future<br> trees,    10<br> My dead absorb--my young men's beautiful bodies absorb--and their<br> precious, precious, precious blood;<br> Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a<br> year hence,<br> In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence;<br> In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings--give<br> my immortal heroes;<br> Exhale me them centuries hence--breathe me their breath--let not an<br> atom be lost;<br> O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!<br> Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Walt+Whitman">Walt Whitman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535096" data-title="Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The Mother Of All de Walt Whitman" data-description="PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,
 Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-
 fields gazing;
 (As the last gun ceased--but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd;)
 As she call'd to her earth with mourn..."></div>
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