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Ether

Multitudes by Matt Kane

“  
  My single soul--aims, confirmations, failures, joys--Nor single soul alone,  
  I chant my nation’s crucial stage, (America’s, haply humanity’s)--  
      the trial great, the victory great,  
  A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,  
      the ancient, medieval,  
  Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats--here  
      at the west a voice triumphant--justifying all,  
  A gladsome pealing cry--a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction;  
  I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the  
      best sooner than the worst)--And now I chant old age,  
  (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s,  
      autumn’s spread,  
  I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses  
      winter-cool’d the same;)  
  As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love,  
  wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,  
  On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!  
MY 71st Year  
  After surmounting three-score and ten,  
  With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows,  
  My parents’ deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing  
      passions of me, the war of ’63 and ’4,  
  As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or  
      haply after battle,  
  To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here,  
      with vital voice,  
  Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.  
Apparitions  
  A vague mist hanging ’round half the pages:  
  (Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul,  
  That all these solid things are indeed but apparitions, concepts,  
      non-realities.)  
The Pallid Wreath  
  Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is,  
  Let it remain back there on its nail suspended,  
  With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch’d, and the white now gray and ashy,  
  One wither’d rose put years ago for thee, dear friend;  
  But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded?  
  Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead?  
  No, while memories subtly play--the past vivid as ever;  
  For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee,  
  Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever:  
  So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach,  
”