2
Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; Give me faces and streets—­give me these phantoms incessant and
    endless along the trottoirs! 
Give me interminable eyes—­give me women—­give me comrades and
    lovers by the thousand! 
Let me see new ones every day—­let me hold new ones by the hand every day!  Give me such shows—­give me the streets of Manhattan!  Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—­give me the sound of
    the trumpets and drums! 
(The soldiers in companies or regiments—­some starting away, flush’d
    and reckless,
Some, their time up, returning with thinn’d ranks, young, yet very
    old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!  O such for me!  O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!  The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!  The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the
    torchlight procession! 
The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons
    following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even
    the sight of the wounded,)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! 
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

} Dirge for Two Veterans

     The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finish’d Sabbath,
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking,
     Down a new-made double grave.

     Lo, the moon ascending,
Up from the east the silvery round moon,
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon,
     Immense and silent moon.

     I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key’d bugles,
All the channels of the city streets they’re flooding,
     As with voices and with tears.

     I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring,
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
     Strikes me through and through.

     For the son is brought with the father,
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell,
Two veterans son and father dropt together,
     And the double grave awaits them.)

     Now nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive,
And the daylight o’er the pavement quite has faded,
     And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

     In the eastern sky up-buoying,
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin’d,
(’Tis some mother’s large transparent face,
     In heaven brighter growing.)

     O strong dead-march you please me! 
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! 
O my soldiers twain!  O my veterans passing to burial! 
     What I have I also give you.