Pensive and faltering,
The words the Dead I write,
For living are the Dead,
(Haply the only living, only real,
And I the apparition, I the spectre).[1]
For the death of Lincoln he expands magnificently St. Francis’ praise of Sister Death:
Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.[2]
And he goes on to promise festivals and serenades as to one beloved.
III
But Whitman would not be the universal man if the thought of death held him continually. To be complete he must be at the same time as full of laughter as a child, as melancholy as an old man, as humble as St. Francis, and as valiant as Nietzsche. No one, I hope, will be surprised at the appearance of this name here. Since I
