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Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Prose Works. 1892.

I. Specimen Days

155. A Night Remembrance

Aug. 25, 9–10 A. M.—I SIT by the edge of the pond, everything quiet, the broad polish’d surface spread before me—the blue of the heavens and the white clouds return’d from it—and flitting across, now and then, the reflection of some flying bird. Last night I was down here with a friend till after midnight; everything a miracle of splendor—the glory of the stars, and the completely rounded moon—the passing clouds, silver and luminous-tawny—now and then masses of vapory illuminated scud—and silently by my side my dear friend. The shades of the trees, and patches of moonlight on the grass—the softly blowing breeze, and just-palpable odor of the neighboring ripening corn—the indolent and spiritual night, inexpressibly rich, tender, suggestive—something altogether to filter through one’s soul, and nourish and feed and soothe the memory long afterwards.