The dull nights go over and the dull days also,
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,
The physician after long putting off gives the silent and terrible
    look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters
    are sent for,
Medicines stand unused on the shelf, (the camphor-smell has long
    pervaded the rooms,)
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
The breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,
The corpse stretches on the bed and the living look upon it,
It is palpable as the living are palpable.

The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,
But without eyesight lingers a different living and looks curiously
    on the corpse.

     3
To think the thought of death merged in the thought of materials, To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking
    great interest in them, and we taking no interest in them.

To think how eager we are in building our houses,
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent.

(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or
    seventy or eighty years at most,
I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.)

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—­they never
    cease—­they are the burial lines,
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall
    surely be buried.

4
A reminiscence of the vulgar fate,
A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,
Each after his kind.

Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river,
    half-frozen mud in the streets,
A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of December,
A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver,
    the cortege mostly drivers.

Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell,
The gate is pass’d, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living
    alight, the hearse uncloses,
The coffin is pass’d out, lower’d and settled, the whip is laid on
    the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel’d in,
The mound above is flatted with the spades—­silence,
A minute—­no one moves or speaks—­it is done,
He is decently put away—­is there any thing more?

He was a good fellow, free-mouth’d, quick-temper’d, not bad-looking,
Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate
    hearty, drank hearty,
Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the
    last, sicken’d, was help’d by a contribution,
Died, aged forty-one years—­and that was his funeral.