By Walt Whitman
After threescore and ten
With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows,
My parents' deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of '63 and '4,
As some old broken soldier, after a long hot wearying march, or as haply after battle,
At twilight, hobbling, answering yet to company roll call, Here, with vital voice
Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.