Poem by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 7. The Pallid Wreath

Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is,
Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,
With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white now gray and ashy,
One wither'd rose put years ago for thee, dear friend;
But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?
Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?
No, while memories subtly play—the past vivid as ever;
For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee,
Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever:
So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach,
It is not yet dead to me, nor even pallid.

1. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 28. Old Salt Kossabone
2. Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 23. To a Pupil
3. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 18. Sounds of the Winter
4. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 14. Interpolation Sounds
5. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 47. Orange Buds by Mail from Florida

Print

1291 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version