Today's poem

In the workshop last December, a poet and editor of Carcanet Press, Michael Schmidt recommended reading of the poem to me. At that time I was extremely impressed again to know the vast, bottomless world of English poetry and felt my existence was like dust particle in the universe, however, could have meaning beyond my tiny expectation.

by Walt Whitman

A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital-tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious, I halt, and silent stand;
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket:
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you, my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step-And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory:
Young man, I think I know you-I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.