Adieu dear comrade, Your mission is fulfill'd--but I, more warlike, Myself and this contentious soul of mine, Still on our own campaigning bound, Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined, Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled, Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out--aye here, To fiercer, weightier battles give expression. LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA Long, too long America, Travelling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only, But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are. (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?). II POEMS OF AFTER-WAR WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE Weave in, weave in, my hardy life, Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come, Weave in red blood, weave sinews in like ropes, the senses, sight weave in, Weave lasting sure, weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant weave, tire not (We know not what the use O life, nor know the aim, the end, nor really aught we know, But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on, the death-envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on), For great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave, We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave. HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE (_Washington City, 1865_) How solemn as one by one, As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I stand, As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the masks (As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend, whoever you are), How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks, and to you! I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul, O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend, Nor the bayonet stab what you really are; The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best, Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill, Nor the bayonet stab O friend. SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE (_Washington City, 1865_)