AT CAMDEN by KATHARINE LEE BATES

But why, Walt Whitman, loveliest serenader
Of "sane and sacred Death," the veiled "Dark
Mother,"
From dread of dust our most assured dissuader,
Why in this massive tomb your own dust smother?
Why lavish thousands of your hidden treasure
On that grim prison, you the gipsy lover
Of leaves of grass in every dancing measure
Caprices of their piper winds discover?
Comrade of comrades, Child of Adam, lonely
Your body bears its changes, walled from fusion
Of friendly earth and dew, companioned only
By grandeur, Death's ironical delusion.
April's fresh voice, chanting her new Te Deum,
Beats vainly on that sullen mausoleum.

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