Poetry

I read this excerpt from a poem on Tuesday on a bus ride around town. It seems especially fitting now.

From Walt Whitman's What Is the Grass


What do you think has become of the young and old
   men?
And what do you think has become of the women and
   children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, and
   if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed,
   and luckier.