Notes for Select Whitman Poems

WHEN his hour for death had come,

He slowly raisd himself from the bed on the floor,

Drew on his war-dress, shirt, leggings, and girdled the belt around his waist,

Calld for vermilion paint (his looking-glass was held before him,)

Painted half his face and neck, his wrists, and back-hands.

Put the scalp-knife carefully in his belt—then lying down, resting a moment,

Rose again, half sitting, smiled, gave in silence his extended hand to each and all,

Sank faintly low to the floor (tightly grasping the tomahawk handle,)

Fixd his look on wife and little children—the last:

(And here a line in memory of his name and death.)