…from the quills of the dead white poets
Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)
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, chocked with wild cries;
O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the beach!
O wild and dismal nigh 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,
O tears! tears! tears!