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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364192" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Walt Whitman In The Civil War Hospitals</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364192" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Prescient, my hands soothing<br>their foreheads, by my love<br>I earn them. in their presence<br>I am wretched as death. They smile<br>to me of love. They cheer me<br>and I smile. These are stones<br>in the catapulting world; <br>they fly, bury themselves in flesh,<br>in a wall, in earth; in midair<br>break against each other<br>and are without sound.<br>I sent them catapulting.<br>They outflew my voice<br>towards vacant spaces,<br>but I have called them farther,<br>to the stillness beyond,<br>to death which I have praised.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=David+Ignatow">David Ignatow</a></strong></div>

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