AS at thy portals also death,
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds,
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity,
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me,
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,
I sit by the form in the coffin,
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the
coffin;)
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the
best,
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs,
And set a tombstone here.

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2 Comments

  1. Aemoh-san says:

    Necrophilia! XD Just kidding. Anyways, this poem makes me want to write something, which is good because I’ve been sorely lacking on insperation lately.

  2. Zanni says:

    Have you eve come upon a poem by chance that speaks precisely to you and with which you connect so totally as to be extrordinary? “As at thy portals also Death” by Walt Whitman is at once both accepting and celebratory. An perfect poem to sum up the gammet of emotions run by anyone who has lost their mother. A worthy piece to be mulled over and savoured in the soul

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