Walt Whitman


TEARS! tears! tears! In the night, in solitude, tears; On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck’d in by the sand; Tears—not a star shining—all dark and desolate; Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head: —O who is that ghost?—that form in the dark, with tears? What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch’d there on the sand? Streaming tears—sobbing tears—throes, choked with wild cries; O storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps along the beach; O wild and dismal night storm, with wind! O belching and desperate! O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace; But away, at night, as you fly, none looking—O then the unloosen’d ocean, Of tears! tears! tears!

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