2 Do you suppose I could be content with all if I thought them their own finale? This now is too lamentable a face for a man, Some abject louse asking leave to be, cringing for it, Some milk-nosed maggot blessing what lets it wrig to its hole. This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage, Snakes nest in that mouth, I hear the sibilant threat. This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea, Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go. This is a face of bitter herbs, this an emetic, they need no label, And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog's-lard. This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn'd-in nails, The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground, while he speculates well. This face is bitten by vermin and worms, And this is some murderer's knife with a half-pull'd scabbard. This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there.
Posted on 16/07/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged 19th Century Poetry, American literature, American poets, Daily Whitman, free verse, Leaves of Grass, literature, poems, poetry, Transcendentalists, Walt Whitman. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.