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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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INSCRIPTIONS.
ONE'S-SELF I SING.
1 ONE'S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person; |
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse . |
2 Of Physiology from top to toe I sing; |
Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for
the muse—I say the Form complete is worthier
far;
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The Female equally with the male I sing. |
3 Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, |
Cheerful—for freest action form'd, under the laws di-
vine,
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AS I PONDER'D IN SILENCE.
1
AS I ponder'd in silence, |
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long, |
A Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect, |
Terrible in beauty, age, and power, |
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The genius of poets of old lands, |
As to me directing like flame its eyes, |
With finger pointing to many immortal songs, |
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said; |
Knowest thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring
bards?
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And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles, |
The making of perfect soldiers? |
2
Be it so, then I answer'd, |
I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and
greater one than any,
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Waged in my book with varying fortune—with fight, ad-
vance, and retreat—Victory deferr'd and wavering,
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(Yet, methinks, certain, or as good as certain, at the last,)
—The field the world;
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For life and death—for the Body, and for the eternal Soul, |
Lo! I too am come, chanting the chant of battles, |
I, above all, promote brave soldiers . |
IN CABIN'D SHIPS AT SEA.
1
IN cabin'd ships, at sea, |
The boundless blue on every side expanding, |
With whistling winds and music of the waves—the
large imperious waves—In such,
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Or some lone bark, buoy'd on the dense marine, |
Where, joyous, full of faith, spreading white sails, |
She cleaves the ether, mid the sparkle and the foam of
day, or under many a star at night,
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By sailors young and old, haply will I, a reminiscence
of the land, be read,
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2
Here are our thoughts—voyagers' thoughts, |
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by
them be said;
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The sky o'erarches here—we feel the undulating deck be-
neath our feet,
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We feel the long pulsation—ebb and flow of endless mo-
tion;
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The tones of unseen mystery—the vague and vast sugges-
tions of the briny world—the liquid-flowing sylla-
bles,
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The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melan-
choly rhythm,
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The boundless vista, and the horizon far and dim, are all
here,
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And this is Ocean's poem . |
3
Then falter not, O book! fulfil your destiny! |
You, not a reminiscence of the land alone, |
You too, as a lone bark, cleaving the ether—purpos'd I
know not whither—yet ever full of faith,
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Consort to every ship that sails—sail you! |
Bear forth to them, folded, my love —(Dear mariners!
for you I fold it here, in every leaf;)
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Speed on, my Book! spread your white sails, my little
bark, athwart the imperious waves!
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Chant on—sail on—bear o'er the boundless blue, from
me, to every shore,
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This song for mariners and all their ships. |
TO FOREIGN LANDS.
I HEARD that you ask'd for something to prove this
puzzle, the New World,
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And to define America, her athletic Democracy; |
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in
them what you wanted.
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TO A HISTORIAN.
YOU who celebrate bygones! |
Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the
races—the life that has exhibited itself;
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Who have treated of man as the creature of politics,
aggregates, rulers and priests;
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I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is
in himself, in his own rights,
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Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited
itself, (the great pride of man in himself;)
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Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be, |
I project the history of the future. |
FOR HIM I SING.
I raise the Present on the Past, |
(As some perennial tree, out of its roots, the present on
the past:)
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With time and space I him dilate—and fuse the im-
mortal laws,
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To make himself, by them, the law unto himself. |
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
WHEN I read the book, the biography famous, |
And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a
man's life?
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And so will some one, when I am dead and gone, write
my life?
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(As if any man really knew aught of my life; |
Why, even I myself, I often think, know little or noth-
ing of my real life;
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Only a few hints—a few diffused, faint clues and indi-
rections,
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I seek, for my own use, to trace out here.) |
BEGINNING MY STUDIES.
BEGINNING my studies, the first step pleas'd me so
much,
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The mere fact, consciousness—these forms—the power
of motion,
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The least insect or animal—the senses—eyesight—
love;
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The first step, I say, aw'd me and pleas'd me so much, |
I have hardly gone, and hardly wish'd to go, any far-
ther,
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But stop and loiter all the time, to sing it in extatic
songs.
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TO THEE, OLD CAUSE!
Thou peerless, passionate, good cause! |
Thou stern, remorseless, sweet Idea! |
Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands! |
After a strange, sad war—great war for thee, |
(I think all war through time was really fought, and
ever will be really fought, for thee;)
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These chants for thee—the eternal march of thee. |
Thou seething principle! Thou well-kept, latent germ! |
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Around the idea of thee the strange sad war revolv-
ing,
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With all its angry and vehement play of causes, |
(With yet unknown results to come, for thrice a thou-
sand years,)
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These recitatives for thee—my Book and the War are
one,
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Merged in its spirit I and mine—as the contest hinged
on thee,
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As a wheel on its axis turns, this Book, unwitting to
itself,
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