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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH.
WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH.
1 WHISPERS of heavenly death murmur'd I hear; |
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals; |
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted
soft and low;
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Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing,
forever flowing;
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(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters
of human tears?)
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2 I see, just see skyward, great cloud-masses, |
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mix-
ing,
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With, at times, a half-dimm'd, sadden'd, far-off star, |
Appearing and disappearing. |
3 (Some parturition rather—some solemn, immortal
birth:
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On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable, |
Some Soul is passing over.) |
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DAREST THOU NOW O SOUL.
Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region, |
Where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to
follow?
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2 No map, there, nor guide, |
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, |
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in
that land.
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Nor dost thou—all is a blank before us; |
All waits, undream'd of, in that region—that inaccessi-
ble land.
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4 Till, when the ties loosen, |
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, |
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, bound
us.
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5 Then we burst forth—we float, |
In Time and Space, O soul—prepared for them; |
Equal, equipt at last—(O joy! O fruit of all!) them to
fulfil, O soul.
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OF HIM I LOVE DAY AND NIGHT.
OF him I love day and night, I dream'd I heard he was
dead;
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And I dream'd I went where they had buried him I
love—but he was not in that place;
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And I dream'd I wander'd searching among burial-
places to find him;
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And I found that every place was a burial-place; |
The houses full of life were equally full of death, (this
house is now;)
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The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the
Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta,
were as full of the dead as of the living,
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And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead than of the
living;
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—And what I dream'd I will henceforth tell to every
person and age,
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And I stand henceforth bound to what I dream'd; |
And now I am willing to disregard burial-places and
dispense with them;
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And if the memorials of the dead were put up indiffer-
ently everywhere, even in the room where I eat
or sleep, I should be satisfied;
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And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own corpse,
be duly render'd to powder, and pour'd in the
sea, I shall be satisfied;
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Or if it be distributed to the winds, I shall be satisfied. |
ASSURANCES.
I NEED no assurances, I am a man who is pre-occupied,
of his own Soul;
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I do not doubt that from under the feet, and beside the
hands and face I am cognizant of, are now look-
ing faces I am not cognizant of—calm and actual
faces
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I do not doubt but the majesty and beauty of the world
are latent in any iota of the world;
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I do not doubt I am limitless, and that the universes
are limitless—in vain I try to think how limitless—
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I do not doubt that the orbs and the systems of orbs
play their swift sports through the air on pur-
pose—and that I shall one day be eligible to do
as much as they, and more than they;
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I do not doubt that temporary affairs keep on and on,
millions of years;
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I do not doubt interiors have their interiors, and exte-
riors have their exteriors—and that the eyesight
has another eyesight, and the hearing another
hearing, and the voice another voice;
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I do not doubt that the passionately-wept deaths of
young men are provided for—and that the deaths
of young women, and the deaths of little children,
are provided for;
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(Did you think Life was so well provided for—and
Death, the purport of all Life, is not well pro-
vided for?)
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I do not doubt that wrecks at sea, no matter what the
horrors of them—no matter whose wife, child,
husband, father, lover, has gone down, are pro-
vided for, to the minutest points;
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I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen, any
where, at any time, is provided for in the inher-
ences of things;
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I do not think Life provides for all, and for Time and
Space—but I believe Heavenly Death provides
for all.
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YET, YET, YE DOWNCAST HOURS.
1
YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also; |
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles! |
Earth to a chamber of mourning turns—I hear the
o'erweening, mocking voice,
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Matter is conqueror—matter, triumphant only, continues
onward.
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2
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, |
The call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarm'd,
uncertain,
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The Sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me, |
Come tell me where I am speeding—tell me my destination. |
3
I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you, |
I approach, hear, behold—the sad mouth, the look out
of the eyes, your mute inquiry,
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Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me: |
Old age, alarm'd, uncertain—A young woman's voice,
appealing to me for comfort;
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A young man's voice, Shall I not escape? |
QUICKSAND YEARS.
QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither, |
Your schemes, politics, fail—lines give way—substances
mock and elude me;
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Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd
Soul, eludes not;
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One's-self must never give way—that is the final sub-
stance—that out of all is sure;
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Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life—what at last
finally remains?
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When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure? |
THAT MUSIC ALWAYS ROUND ME.
THAT music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning
—yet long untaught I did not hear;
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But now the chorus I hear, and am elated; |
A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with
glad notes of day-break I hear,
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A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops
of immense waves,
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A transparent base shuddering lusciously under and
through the universe,
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The triumphant tutti—the funeral wailings, with sweet
flutes and violins—all these I fill myself with;
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I hear not the volumes of sound merely—I am moved
by the exquisite meanings,
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I listen to the different voices winding in and out,
striving, contending with fiery vehemence to
excel each other in emotion;
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I do not think the performers know themselves—but
now I think I begin to know them.
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AS IF A PHANTOM CARESS'D ME.
AS if a phantom caress'd me, |
I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore; |
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by
the shore—the one I loved, that caress'd me,
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As I lean and look through the glimmering light—that
one has utterly disappear'd,
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And those appear that are hateful to me, and mock me. |
HERE, SAILOR!
WHAT ship puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckon-
ing?
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Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the chan-
nel, a perfect pilot needs?
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Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect
pilot,
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Whom, in a little boat, putting off, and rowing, I,
hailing you, offer.
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A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER.
1 A NOISELESS patient spider, |
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood,
isolated;
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Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, |
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of
itself;
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Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. |
2 And you, O my Soul, where you stand, |
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of
space,
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Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the
spheres, to connect them;
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Till the bridge you will need, be form'd—till the ductile
anchor hold;
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Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,
O my Soul.
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THE LAST INVOCATION.
1
From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, |
From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of
the well-closed doors,
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2
Let me glide noiselessly forth; |
With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a
whisper,
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Set ope the doors, O Soul! |
3
Tenderly! be not impatient! |
(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! |
Strong is your hold, O love.) |
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AS I WATCH'D THE PLOUGHMAN PLOUGHING.
AS I watch'd the ploughman ploughing, |
Or the sower sowing in the fields—or the harvester
harvesting,
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I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies: |
(Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest accord-
ing.)
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PENSIVE AND FALTERING.
The words, the dead , I write; |
(Haply the only living, only real, |
And I the apparition—I the spectre.) |
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