Leaves of Grass (1856)
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| FLOOD-TIDE of the river, flow on! I watch
you, face to face, |
| Clouds of the west! sun half an hour high! I see
you also face to face. |
| Crowds of men and women attired in the usual
costumes, how curious you are to me! |
| On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds
that cross are more curious to me than you suppose, |
| And you that shall cross from shore to shore
years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. |
| The impalpable sustenance of me from all things
at all hours of the day, |
| The simple, compact, well-joined scheme—my-
self disintegrated, every one disintegrated, yet part of the scheme, |
| The similitudes of the past and those of the
future, |
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|
| The glories strung like beads on my smallest
sights and hearings—on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river, |
| The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming
with me far away, |
| The others that are to follow me, the ties between
me and them, |
| The certainty of others—the life, love, sight,
hearing of others. |
| Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross
from shore to shore, |
| Others will watch the run of the flood-tide, |
| Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north
and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east, |
| Others will see the islands large and small, |
| Fifty years hence others will see them as they
cross, the sun half an hour high, |
| A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred
years hence, others will see them, |
| Will enjoy the sun-set, the pouring in of the flood-
tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb- tide. |
| It avails not, neither time or place—distance
avails not, |
| I am with you, you men and women of a genera-
tion, or ever so many generations hence, |
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|
| I project myself, also I return—I am with you,
and know how it is. |
| Just as you feel when you look on the river and
sky, so I felt, |
| Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was
one of a crowd, |
| Just as you are refreshed by the gladness
of the river, and the bright flow, I was refreshed, |
| Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry
with the swift current, I stood, yet was hur- ried, |
| Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships,
and the thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, I looked. |
| I too many and many a time crossed the river,
the sun half an hour high, |
| I watched the December sea-gulls, I saw them
high in the air floating with motionless wings oscillating their bodies, |
| I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of
their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow, |
| I saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual
edging toward the south. |
| I too saw the reflection of the summer-sky in the
water. |
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|
| Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of
beams, |
| Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light
round the shape of my head in the sun-lit water, |
| Looked on the haze on the hills southward and
southwestward, |
| Looked on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged
with violet, |
| Looked toward the lower bay to notice the arriv-
ing ships, |
| Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were
near me, |
| Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw
the ships at anchor, |
| The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride
the spars, |
| The round masts, the swinging motion of the
hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, |
| The large and small steamers in motion, the pi-
lots in their pilot-houses, |
| The white wake left by the passage, the quick
tremulous whirl of the wheels, |
| The flags of all nations, the falling of them at
sun-set, |
| The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the
ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glisten- ing, |
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|
| The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the
gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks, |
| On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-
tug closely flanked on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter, |
| On the neighboring shore the fires from the foun-
dry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night, |
| Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild
red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets. |
| These and all else were to me the same as they
are to you, |
| I project myself a moment to tell you—also I
return. |
| I loved well those cities, |
| I loved well the stately and rapid river, |
| The men and women I saw were all near to me, |
| Others the same—others who look back on me,
because I looked forward to them, |
| The time will come, though I stop here today and
tonight. |
| What is it, then, between us? What is the
count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? |
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|
| Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not,
and place avails not. |
| I too lived, |
| I too walked the streets of Manhattan Island, and
bathed in the waters around it; |
| I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir with-
in me, |
| In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes
they came upon me, |
| In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my
bed, they came upon me. |
| I too had been struck from the float forever held
in solution, |
| I too had received identity by my body, |
| That I was, I knew was of my body, and what I
should be, I knew I should be of my body. |
| It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, |
| The dark threw patches down upon me also, |
| The best I had done seemed to me blank and sus-
picious, |
| My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they
not in reality meagre? Would not people laugh at me? |
| It is not you alone who know what it is to be
evil, |
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| I am he who knew what it was to be evil, |
| I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, |
| Blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stole, grudged, |
| Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not
speak, |
| Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, a solitary
committer, a coward, a malignant person, |
| The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, |
| The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adul-
terous wish, not wanting, |
| Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, lazi-
ness, none of these wanting. |
| But I was a Manhattanese, free, friendly, and
proud! |
| I was called by my nighest name by clear loud
voices of young men as they saw me ap- proaching or passing, |
| Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the neg-
ligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat, |
| Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or
public assembly, yet never told them a word, |
| Lived the same life with the rest, the same old
laughing, gnawing, sleeping, |
| Played the part that still looks back on the actor
or actress, |
| The same old role, the role that is what we make
it, as great as we like, or as small as we like, or both great and small. |
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| Closer yet I approach you, |
| What thought you have of me, I had as much of
you—I laid in my stores in advance, |
| I considered long and seriously of you before you
were born. |
| Who was to know what should come home to me? |
| Who knows but I am enjoying this? |
| Who knows but I am as good as looking at you
now, for all you cannot see me? |
| It is not you alone, nor I alone, |
| Not a few races, not a few generations, not a few
centuries, |
| It is that each came, or comes, or shall come,
from its due emission, without fail, either now, or then, or henceforth. |
| Every thing indicates—the smallest does, and
the largest does, |
| A necessary film envelops all, and envelops the
soul for a proper time. |
| Now I am curious what sight can ever be more
stately and admirable to me than my mast- hemm'd Manhatta, my river and sun-set, and my scallop-edged waves of flood-tide, the sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter, |
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| Curious what gods can exceed these that clasp
me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach, |
| Curious what is more subtle than this which ties
me to the woman or man that looks in my face, |
| Which fuses me into you now, and pours my
meaning into you. |
| We understand, then, do we not? |
| What I promised without mentioning it, have
you not accepted? |
| What the study could not teach—what the
preaching could not accomplish is accom- plished, is it not? |
| What the push of reading could not start is
started by me personally, is it not? |
| Flow on, river! Flow with the flood-tide, and
ebb with the ebb-tide! |
| Frolic on, crested and scallop-edged waves! |
| Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set, drench with your
splendor me, or the men and women genera- tions after me! |
| Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of
passengers! |
| Stand up, tall masts of Manahatta!—stand up,
beautiful hills of Brooklyn! |
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| Bully for you! you proud, friendly, free Manhat-
tanese! |
| Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out ques-
tions and answers! |
| Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of
solution! |
| Blab, blush, lie, steal, you or I or any one after
us! |
| Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or
street or public assembly! |
| Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and mu-
sically call me by my nighest name! |
| Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the
actor or actress! |
| Play the old role, the role that is great or small,
according as one makes it! |
| Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may
not in unknown ways be looking upon you! |
| Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who
lean idly, yet haste with the hasting cur- rent! |
| Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large
circles high in the air! |
| Receive the summer-sky, you water! faithfully
hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you! |
| Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of
my head, or any one's head, in the sun-lit water! |
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| Come on, ships, from the lower bay! pass up
or down, white-sailed schooners, sloops, lighters! |
| Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered
at sun-set! |
| Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast
black shadows at night-fall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses! |
| Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what
you are! |
| You necessary film, continue to envelop the
soul! |
| About my body for me, and your body for you, be
hung our divinest aromas! |
| Thrive, cities! Bring your freight, bring your
shows, ample and sufficient rivers! |
| Expand, being than which none else is perhaps
more spiritual! |
| Keep your places, objects than which none else is
more lasting! |
| We descend upon you and all things, we arrest
you all, |
| We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids
and fluids, |
| Through you color, form, location, sublimity,
ideality, |
| Through you every proof, comparison, and all the
suggestions and determinations of ourselves. |
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| You have waited, you always wait, you dumb
beautiful ministers! you novices! |
| We receive you with free sense at last, and are
insatiate henceforward, |
| Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or with-
hold yourselves from us, |
| We use you, and do not cast you aside—we
plant you permanently within us, |
| We fathom you not—we love you—there is
perfection in you also, |
| You furnish your parts toward eternity, |
| Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the
soul. |