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Leaves of Grass (1860)
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A WORD OUT OF THE SEA.
| OUT of the rocked cradle, |
| Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, |
Out of the boy's mother's womb, and from the nipples
of her breasts,
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| Out of the Ninth Month midnight, |
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where
the child, leaving his bed, wandered alone, bare-
headed, barefoot,
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| Down from the showered halo, |
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and
twisting as if they were alive,
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| Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, |
| From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, |
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful
risings and fallings I heard,
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From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and
swollen as if with tears,
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From those beginning notes of sickness and love,
there in the transparent mist,
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From the thousand responses of my heart, never to
cease,
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| From the myriad thence-aroused words, |
| From the word stronger and more delicious than any, |
| From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, |
| As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, |
| Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, |
| A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, |
| Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, |
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and here-
after,
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Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping
beyond them,
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REMINISCENCE.
When the snows had melted, and the Fifth Month
grass was growing,
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| Up this sea-shore, in some briers, |
| Two guests from Alabama—two together, |
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with
brown,
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| And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, |
And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest,
silent, with bright eyes,
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And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never
disturbing them,
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| Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. |
| Pour down your warmth, great Sun! |
| While we bask—we two together . |
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| Winds blow South, or winds blow North, |
| Day come white, or night come black, |
| Home, or rivers and mountains from home, |
| Singing all time, minding no time, |
| If we two but keep together . |
| May-be killed, unknown to her mate, |
| One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, |
| Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, |
5 And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the
sea,
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And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer
weather,
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| Over the hoarse surging of the sea, |
| Or flitting from brier to brier by day, |
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the
he-bird,
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| The solitary guest from Alabama. |
| Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; |
| I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me . |
| 7 Yes, when the stars glistened, |
| All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, |
| Down, almost amid the slapping waves, |
| Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. |
He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men,
know.
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| 9 Yes, my brother, I know, |
| The rest might not—but I have treasured every note, |
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the
beach gliding,
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Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with
the shadows,
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Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the
sounds and sights after their sorts,
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| The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, |
| I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, |
10 Listened, to keep, to sing—now translating the
notes,
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| Following you, my brother. |
| Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, |
And again another behind, embracing and lapping,
every one close,
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| But my love soothes not me . |
| 12 Low hangs the moon—it rose late, |
| O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love . |
| 13 O madly the sea pushes upon the land, |
O do I not see my love fluttering out there among the
breakers?
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What is that little black thing I see there in the
white?
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| Loud I call to you my love! |
| High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, |
| Surely you must know who is here, |
| You must know who I am, my love . |
| What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? |
| O it is the shape of my mate! |
| O moon, do not keep her from me any longer . |
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me
my mate back again, if you would,
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For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way
I look .
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Perhaps the one I want so much will rise with some
of you .
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| Sound clearer through the atmosphere! |
| Pierce the woods, the earth, |
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I
want .
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| Solitary here—the night's carols! |
| Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols! |
| Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! |
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down
into the sea!
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| O reckless, despairing carols . |
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| Soft! Let me just murmur, |
| And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea, |
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding
to me,
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| So faint—I must be still to listen, |
But not altogether still, for then she might not come
immediately to me .
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With this just-sustained note I announce myself to
you,
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| This gentle call is for you, my love . |
| 23 Do not be decoyed elsewhere! |
| That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice, |
| That is the fluttering of the spray, |
| Those are the shadows of leaves . |
| 24 O darkness! O in vain! |
| O I am very sick and sorrowful . |
25 O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping
upon the sea!
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| O troubled reflection in the sea! |
| O throat! O throbbing heart! |
| O all—and I singing uselessly all the night . |
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to
sing, I know not why .
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| In the air—in the woods—over fields, |
| Loved! Loved! Loved! Loved! Loved! |
| Loved—but no more with me, |
| We two together no more . |
| All else continuing—the stars shining, |
The winds blowing—the notes of the wondrous bird
echoing,
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With angry moans the fierce old mother yet, as ever,
incessantly moaning,
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| On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling, |
The yellow half-moon, enlarged, sagging down, droop-
ing, the face of the sea almost touching,
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The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with
his hair the atmosphere dallying,
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The love in the heart pent, now loose, now at last
tumultuously bursting,
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The aria's meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depos-
iting,
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| The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, |
| The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering, |
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly
crying,
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To the boy's Soul's questions sullenly timing—some
drowned secret hissing,
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| To the outsetting bard of love. |
| 29 Bird! (then said the boy's Soul,) |
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it
mostly to me?
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| For I that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, |
| Now that I have heard you, |
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| Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake, |
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs,
clearer, louder, more sorrowful than yours,
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A thousand warbling echoes have started to life
within me,
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| O you demon, singing by yourself—projecting me, |
O solitary me, listening—never more shall I cease
imitating, perpetuating you,
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| Never more shall I escape, |
| Never more shall the reverberations, |
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent
from me,
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Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was
before what there, in the night,
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| By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon, |
The dusky demon aroused—the fire, the sweet hell
within,
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| The unknown want, the destiny of me. |
| O if I am to have so much, let me have more! |
| O a word! O what is my destination? |
| O I fear it is henceforth chaos! |
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and
all shapes, spring as from graves around me!
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| O phantoms! you cover all the land, and all the sea! |
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or
frown upon me;
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| O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved! |
| O you dear women's and men's phantoms! |
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| 32 A word then, (for I will conquer it,) |
| The word final, superior to all, |
| Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; |
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time,
you sea-waves?
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| Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? |
| Delaying not, hurrying not, |
Whispered me through the night, and very plainly
before daybreak,
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Lisped to me constantly the low and delicious word
DEATH,
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| And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death, |
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my
aroused child's heart,
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But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at
my feet,
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| And creeping thence steadily up to my ears, |
| Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. |
| 34 Which I do not forget, |
| But fuse the song of two together, |
That was sung to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's
gray beach,
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| With the thousand responsive songs, at random, |
| My own songs, awaked from that hour, |
| And with them the key, the word up from the waves, |
| The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, |
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to
my feet,
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