Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

188. In Midnight Sleep

IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—of that indescribable look;

Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;

Of skies, so beauteous after a storm—and at night the moon so unearthly bright,

Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long, long have they pass’d—faces and trenches and fields;

Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure—or away from the fallen,

Onward I sped at the time—But now of their forms at night,

I dream, I dream, I dream.