Thanks in Old Age by Walt Whitman — Past Poetry archive

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, unspecified, 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 forward 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.