AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!
(For what is my life, or any man's life, but a conflict with foes--
the old, the incessant war?)
You degradations--you tussle with passions and appetites;
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of
all;)
You toil of painful and choked articulations--you meannesses;
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of
any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother'd ennuis;
Ah, think not you finally triumph--My real self has yet to come
forth;
It shall yet march forth o'ermastering, till all lies beneath me; 10
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion'd victory.
More verses by Walt Whitman
- For Him I Sing
- Of Him I Love Day And Night
- By The Bivouac's Fitful Flame
- An Army Corps On The March
- As If A Phantom Caress'D Me