Poem: “The City Dead-House” by Walt Whitman

Leaves Of Grass

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American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Walt Whitman – Poems by Walt Whitman – Leaves Of Grass
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The City Dead-House

By the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangour,
I curious pause—for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaimed, it lies on the damp brick pavement.
The divine woman, her body—I see the body—I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty—all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odours morbific
        impress me;
But the house alone—that wondrous house—that delicate fair house—that
        ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built,
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted—or all the
        old high-spired cathedrals,
That little house alone, more than them all—poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaimed, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropped aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crushed!
House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house! dead even
        then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnished house-but dead, dead, dead!

< < < Despairing Cries
To One Shortly To Die > > >

American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Walt Whitman – Poems by Walt Whitman – Leaves Of Grass

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The City Dead-House

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