Walt Whitman (1819–92)

An Ended Day

The soothing sanity and blitheness of completion,

The pomp and hurried contest-glare and rush are done;

Now triumph! transformation! jubilate!¹

NOTE. — Summer country life. — Several years. — In my rambles and explorations I found a woody place near the creek, where for some reason the birds in happy mood seem’d to resort in unusual numbers. Especially at the beginning of the day, and again at the ending, I was sure to get there the most copious bird-concerts. I repair’d there frequently at sunrise — and also at sunset, or just before ... Once the question arose in me: Which is the best singing, the first or the lattermost? The first always exhilarated, and perhaps seem’d more joyous and stronger; but I always felt the sunset or late afternoon sounds more penetrating and sweeter — seem’d to touch the soul — often the evening thrushes, two or three of them, responding and perhaps blending. Though I miss’d some of the mornings, I found myself getting to be quite strictly punctual at the evening utterances.
ANOTHER NOTE. — "HE went out with the tide and the sunset," was a phrase I heard from a surgeon describing an old sailor’s death under peculiarly gentle conditions.
During the Secession War, 1863 and ’4, visiting the Army Hospitals around Washington, D.C., I form’d the habit, and continued it to the end, whenever the ebb or flood tide began the latter part of day, of punctually visiting those at that time populous wards of suffering men. Somehow (or I thought so) the effect of the hour was palpable. The badly wounded would get some ease, and would like to talk a little, or be talk’d to. Intellectual and emotional natures would be at their best: Deaths were always easier; medicines seem’d to have better effect when given then, and a lulling atmosphere would pervade the wards.
Similar influences, similar circumstances and hours, day-close, after great battles, even with all their horrors. I had more than once the same experience on the fields cover’d with fallen or dead.