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He's trying to capture the meaning of death,
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all that death, caused in the Civil War, if it's possible.
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But he gives the job to a tiny little bird.
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Whitman himself, he says, is left with "visions,"
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his words, "of battle-corpses"
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and "the debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,"
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in his head.
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The funeral train passes by all the images the poet can muster
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and then he's just left to say, his words:
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"The living remained and suffered."
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I'll return to Whitman.
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It's one way to get a handle,