object:1.whitman - The City Dead-House
author class:Walt Whitman
subject class:Poetry
book class:Whitman - Poems
class:chapter
BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pausefor lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'dit lies on the damp brick
pavement;
The divine woman, her bodyI see the BodyI look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beautyall else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alonethat wondrous housethat delicate fair house
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmountedor
all the old high-spired cathedrals;
That little house alone, more than them allpoor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of lifeerewhile talking and laughingbut ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd housebut dead, dead, dead.
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