Leaves of grass. | ||
FATHER.
15 Child of mine, you fill
me with anguish;
To be that pennant would be too fearful;
Little you know what it is this day, and henceforth
forever;
It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything;
Forward to stand in front of wars — and O, such wars! — what have you to do with them?
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?
To be that pennant would be too fearful;
14a
It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything;
Forward to stand in front of wars — and O, such wars! — what have you to do with them?
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?
Leaves of grass. | ||