 The Wound Dresser. by Walt Whitman. Red for LibriVox.org. by Winston Tharp. 1 An old man bending I come upon you faces, years looking backward, resuming an answer to children. Come tell us, old man, as for young men and maidens that love me? Aroused and angry I'd thought to beat the alarm and urge relentless war, but soon my fingers failed me, my head face drooped and I resigned myself to sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead. He hears hints of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances, of unsurpassed heroes. Was one side so brave, the other was equally brave? Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us, what stays with you latest and deepest, of curious panics, of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains? 2 O maidens and young men I love and that love me, what you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls? Soldier alert, I arrive after a long march covered with sweat and dust, in the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge, enter the captured works, yet low, like a swift running river they fade, pass and are gone, they fade. I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys, both I remember well, many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content. But in silence and dreams, projections, while the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, so soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand. With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, while for you up there, whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart. Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, straight and swift to my wounded I go, where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground, or to the rows of the hospital tent or under the roofed hospital, to the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, to each and all, one after another I draw near, not one do I miss. An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse-pale, soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood emptied and filled again. I onward go, I stop with hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, one turns to me as appealing eyes, poor boy, I never knew you, yet I think that I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you. Three. On, on I go, open doors of time, open hospital doors, the crushed head I dress, poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away, the neck of the cavalryman with the bullet through and through I examine, hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard. Come, sweet death, be persuaded, oh beautiful death, in mercy come quickly. From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood. Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curved neck and side-falling head, his eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump, and has not yet looked on it. I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, but a day or two more, foresee the frame all wasted and sinking and the yellow blue countenance see. I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound, cleanse the one with the gnawing and putrid gangrene so sickening, so offensive, while a attendant stands behind, aside me holding the tray in pale. I am faithful, I do not give out, the fractured thigh, the knee, the wound and the abdomen, these and more I dress with impassive hand, yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame. 4. Thus in silence, in dreams, projections, returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, the hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, some suffer so much. I recall the experience sweet and sad, many a soldier's loving arms around this neck have crossed and rested, many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips. And a poem? This recording is in the public domain. Young Blood by Stephen Vincent Benet Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMann But sir, I said, they tell me the man is like to die. The cannon shook his head indulgently. Young blood, cousin, he boomed. Young blood, youth will be served. Hermonville's Fableo He woke with a sick taste in his mouth and lay there heavily, while dancing moats whirled through his brain in endless rippling streams, and a gray mist weighed down upon his eyes so that they could not open fully. Yet after some time his blurred mind stumbled back to its last ragged memory, a room, air foul with wine, a shouting, reeling crowd of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink, out to the street, a crazy rout of cabs, the steady mutter of his neighbor's voice, mumbling out dull obscenity by rote. And then, well, they had brought him home, it seemed, since he awoke in bed. Oh, damn the business, he had not wanted it. The silly jokes. One last great night of freedom ere you're married. You'll get no fun then. Shh, don't tell that story, he'll have a wife soon. God, the sitting down to drink till you are sodden. Like great light she came into his thoughts. That was the worst. To wallow in the mud like this because his friends were fools. He was not fit to touch, to see. Oh, far, far off that silver place where God stood manifest to man and her. Fowling himself. One thing he brought to her at least. He had been clean, had taken it a kind of point of honor from the first. Others might do it, but he didn't care for those things. Suddenly his vision cleared, and something seemed to grow within his mind. Something was wrong, the color of the wall, the queer shape of the bedposts. Everything was changed somehow, his room. Was this his room? He turned his head and saw beside him there the sagging body slope, the paint smeared face, and the loose open mouth, lax and awry. The breast, the bleached and brittle hair. These things, as if all hell were crushed to one bright line of lightning for a moment. Then he sank, prone beneath an intolerable weight, and bitter loathing crept up all his limbs. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.