Softly I lay my right hand upon you, you ’ust feel it,
I do not argue, I bend my head close and half envelop it,
I sit quietly by, I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself spiritual bodily, that is
    eternal, you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.

The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions,
Strong thoughts fill you and confidence, you smile,
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines, you do not mind the weeping friends,
    I am with you,
I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.

} Night on the Prairies

Night on the prairies,
The supper is over, the fire on the ground burns low,
The wearied emigrants sleep, wrapt in their blankets;
I walk by myself—­I stand and look at the stars, which I think now
    never realized before.

Now I absorb immortality and peace,
I admire death and test propositions.

How plenteous! how spiritual! how resume! 
The same old man and soul—­the same old aspirations, and the same content.

I was thinking the day most splendid till I saw what the not-day exhibited,
I was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless
    around me myriads of other globes.

Now while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me I will
    measure myself by them,
And now touch’d with the lives of other globes arrived as far along
    as those of the earth,
Or waiting to arrive, or pass’d on farther than those of the earth,
I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my own life,
Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive.

O I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot,
I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

} Thought

As I sit with others at a great feast, suddenly while the music is playing,
To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral in mist of a
    wreck at sea,
Of certain ships, how they sail from port with flying streamers and
    wafted kisses, and that is the last of them,
Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the President,
Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations founder’d
    off the Northeast coast and going down—­of the steamship Arctic
    going down,
Of the veil’d tableau-women gather’d together on deck, pale, heroic,
    waiting the moment that draws so close—­O the moment!

A huge sob—­a few bubbles—­the white foam spirting up—­and then the
    women gone,
Sinking there while the passionless wet flows on—­and I now
    pondering, Are those women indeed gone? 
Are souls drown’d and destroy’d so? 
Is only matter triumphant?