Explore "France, the Eighteenth Year of these States" by Walt Whitman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
1. A great year and place; / A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart / closer than any yet.
2. I walked the shores of my Eastern Sea, / Heard over the waves the little voice, / Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of / cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings; / Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running -- nor from the single / corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils; / Was not so desperate at the battues of death -- was not so shocked at the / repeated fusillades of the guns.