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Walt Whitman - Come up from the Fields, Father.

COME up from the fields, father, here’s a letter from our Pete; 
And come to the front door, mother—here’s a letter from thy dear son. 
Lo, ’tis autumn; 
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, 
Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind;
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellis’d vines; 
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? 
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?) 
Above all, lo, the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds; 
Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful—and the farm prospers well.
Down in the fields all prospers well; 
But now from the fields come, father—come at the daughter’s call; 
And come to the entry, mother—to the front door come, right away. 
Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—her steps trembling; 
She does not tarry to smoothe her hair, nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly; 
O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d; 
O a strange hand writes for our dear son—O stricken mother’s soul! 
All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only; 
Sentences broken—gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to
At present low, but will soon be better. 
Ah, now, the single figure to me, 
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms, 
Sickly white in the face, and dull in the head, very faint, 
By the jamb of a door leans.
Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs; 
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismay’d;) 
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. 
Alas, poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and
While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already;
The only son is dead. 
But the mother needs to be better; 
She, with thin form, presently drest in black; 
By day her meals untouch’d—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, 
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed—silent from life, escape and withdraw, 
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

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Added: Feb 7 2004 | Viewed: 12105 times | Comments and analysis of Come up from the Fields, Father. by Walt Whitman Comments (15)

Come up from the Fields, Father. - Comments and Information

Poet: Walt Whitman
Poem: 12. Come up from the Fields, Father.
Volume: Leaves of Grass
- 8. Drum-Taps
Year: Published/Written in 1900

Comment 15 of 15, added on April 14th, 2014 at 9:23 AM.
The media role in ma

The media role in making Jack the Ripper fauoms as the "first serial killer" also indicates how technology changes perception. The murders happened just after the popular press developed. The British press is known as "Fleet Street" because they were located there to be near the courts where so many colourful stories originate. Whitechapel, the barbarous slum where the Ripper murders happend is a short walk from Fleet street. If they had happened elsewhere I doubt they would have been seriously reported.Indeed the press played a greater role than merely reporting. It is a well known secret that the "Jack the Ripper" letter was actually written by a journalist (there was an earlier but less interesting letter which is possibly genuine). Without that letter we would not have the name and indeed without the entire campaign not all of the murders would have been attributed to one person - murders of prostitutes were and still are common in such places.

Kasoaksoka from Trinidad and Tobago, Republic
Comment 14 of 15, added on November 15th, 2012 at 10:45 AM.
hello world :)

Hello , my name is Yohan and I found this forum and its members really nice!

yoyonoob from Antigua and Barbuda
Comment 13 of 15, added on December 17th, 2011 at 1:48 PM.
Riley Starrett

Hah, Italy demonstrators rally against Berlusconi

Hunter Powell from United States

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