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Whispers of heavenly death, murmur'd I hear;

Labial gossip of night - sibilant chorals;

Footsteps gently ascending - mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;

Ripples of unseen rivers--tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;

(Or is it the plashing of tears?

the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;

Mournfully, slowly they roll,

silently swelling and mixing;

With, at times, a half-dimm'd,

sadden'd, far-off star,

Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather--some solemn, immortal birth: 10

On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,

Some Soul is passing over.)

Poem by Walt Whitman