*TO end the week of giving thanks, here is a lesser known poem from Walt Whitman, who is one of my favorites of the 19th century. Whitman bore witness to a young country, to the Civil War, to Lincoln and slavery and New York’s early rise, growing pains and all. I give thanks for Whitman, and for my incipient old age in good health if – yes, well – a tad insane – but aren’t we all, these mad days? I might even finally join AARP, now that I am actually, numerically – by my specific standards – OLD. Actually, now that I think on it, no. FEH.
Thanks in old age—thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere
life,
For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear
—you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the
same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat—for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown—or young or old—countless, un-
specified, readers belov’d,
We never met, and ne’er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace,
long, close and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men—devoted, hardy men—who’ve for-
ward sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men—(a special laurel ere I
go, to life’s war’s chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—the
foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)
As soldier from an ended war return’d—As traveler out of
myriads, to the long procession retrospective,
Thanks—joyful thanks!—a soldier’s, traveler’s thanks.