The Mystic Trumpeter
6 Blow again trumpeter—conjure war's alarums. Swift to thy spell a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls, Lo, where the arm'd men hasten—lo, mid the clouds of dust the glint of bayonets, I see the grime-faced cannoneers, I mark the rosy flash amid the smoke, I hear the cracking of the guns; Nor war alone—thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every sight of fear, The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder—I hear the cries for help! I see ships foundering at sea, I behold on deck and below deck the terrible tableaus.
Posted on 25/07/2015, 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.