The Wound-Dresser by Walt Whitman

1

An old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens 

   that love me,
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and 

   urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I 

   resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently 

   watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious 

   passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the 

   other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies 

   of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you 

   to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious 

   panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous 

   what deepest remains?

2

O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and 

   sudden your talking recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with 

   sweat and dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly 

   shout in the rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur'd works--yet lo, like a swift running 

   river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade--I dwell not on soldiers' 

   perils or soldiers' joys,
(Both I remember well--many of the hardships, few 

   the joys, yet I was content.)

But in silence, in dreams' projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth 

   goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the 

   imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while 

   for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of 

   strong heart.)

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle 

   brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, 

   the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the 

   roof'd hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side 

   I return,
To each and all one after another I draw near, not 

   one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a 

   refuse pail,
Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, 

   and fill'd again.

I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet 

   unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes--poor boy! I 

   never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for 

   you, if that would save you.