Poem: “The Veteran’s Vision” by Walt Whitman

Drum Taps

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American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Walt Whitman – Poems by Walt Whitman – Drum Taps
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The Veteran’s Vision

While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the mystic midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath
        of my infant,
There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me.
The engagement opens there and then, in my busy brain unreal;
The skirmishers begin—they crawl cautiously ahead—I hear the irregular
        snap! snap!
I hear the sound of the different missiles—the short t-h-t! t-h-t! of
        the rifle-balls;
I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds—I hear the great
        shells shrieking as they pass;
The grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees, (quick,
        tumultuous, now the contest rages!)
All the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail before me again;
The crashing and smoking—the pride of the men in their pieces;
The chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects a fuse of the
        right time;
After firing, I see him lean aside, and look eagerly off to note the
        effect;
—Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging—the young colonel leads
        himself this time, with brandished sword;
I see the gaps cut by the enemy’s volleys, quickly filled up—no delay;
I breathe the suffocating smoke—then the flat clouds hover low, concealing
        all;
Now a strange lull comes for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either
        side;
Then resumed, the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls, and orders of
        officers;
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a shout
        of applause, (some special success;)
And ever the sound of the cannon, far or near, rousing, even in dreams, a
        devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my
        soul;
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions—batteries, cavalry,
        moving hither and thither;
The falling, dying, I heed not—the wounded, dripping and red, I heed not—
        some to the rear are hobbling;
Grime, heat, rush—aides-de-camp galloping by, or on a full run:
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles, (these in
        my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-coloured rockets.

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O Tan-Faced Prairie Boy > > >

American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Walt Whitman – Poems by Walt Whitman – Drum Taps

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Drum Taps

The Veteran’s Vision

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