Death of a Whistle-blower

 

In the swamp in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

 

Solitary the thrush,

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

 

Song of the bleeding throat,

Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,

If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.)

Walt Whitman