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Leaves of Grass (1867)
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A WORD OUT OF THE SEA.
1
| 1 OUT of the rock'd cradle, |
| Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, |
| Out of the Ninth-month midnight, |
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where
the child, leaving his bed, wander'd alone, bare-
headed, barefoot,
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| Down from the shower'd 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, |
| From the myriad thence-arous'd 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 hereafter, |
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping
beyond them,
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2
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, crouch'd 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. |
3
| Pour down your warmth, great Sun! |
| While we bask—we two together . |
| 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 . |
4
| May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, |
| One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, |
| Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, |
6 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. |
5
| Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore! |
| I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me . |
6
| 8 Yes, when the stars glisten'd, |
| 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 pour'd forth the meanings which I, of all men,
know.
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| 10 Yes, my brother, I know; |
The rest might not—but I have treasur'd every
note;
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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, |
11 Listen'd, to keep, to sing—now translating the
notes,
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| Following you, my brother. |
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7
| 12 Soothe! soothe! soothe! |
| 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, not me . |
| 13 Low hangs the moon—it rose late; |
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love,
with love .
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| 14 O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land . |
15 O night! 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? |
| Loud I call to you, my love! |
| High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; |
| Surely you must know who is here, is here; |
| You must know who I am, my love . |
| What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? |
| O it is the shape, 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 only 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, will rise
with some of you .
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| 20 O throat! O trembling throat! |
| 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 . |
| 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, be still to listen; |
But not altogether still, for then she might not come
immediately tome .
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With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to
you;
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| This gentle call is for you, my love, for you . |
| 24 Do not be decoy'd elsewhere! |
| That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice; |
| That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; |
| Those are the shadows of leaves . |
| 25 O darkness! O in vain! |
| O I am very sick and sorrowful . |
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26 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, uselessly all the night . |
| 27 Yet I murmur, murmur on! |
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing,
I know not why .
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| 28 O past! O life! O songs of joy! |
| In the air—in the woods—over fields; |
| Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! |
| But my love no more, no more with me! |
| We two together no more . |
8
| All else continuing—the stars shining, |
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous
echoing,
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With angry moans the fierce old mother 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 long pent, now loose, now at last
tumultuously bursting,
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The aria's meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly deposit-
ing,
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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
drown'd secret hissing,
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| To the outsetting bard of love. |
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9
| 30 Demon or bird! (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 in a moment I know what I am for—I awake, |
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs,
clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
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A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within
me,
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31 O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—project-
ing me;
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O solitary me, listening—never more shall I cease per-
petuating you;
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Never more shall I escape, never more the reverbera-
tions,
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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 messenger there aroused—the fire, the sweet hell
within,
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| The unknown want, the destiny of me. |
32 O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here
somewhere;)
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| O if I am to have so much, let me have more! |
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is
henceforth chaos;)
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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! |
| 33 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? |
10
| 34 Whereto answering, the sea, |
| Delaying not, hurrying not, |
Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly be-
fore daybreak,
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| Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word DEATH; |
| And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death, |
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my
arous'd child's heart,
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But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my
feet,
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Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me
softly all over,
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| Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. |
| 35 Which I do not forget, |
| But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, |
That he sang 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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