Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass (1871-72)

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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;

Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing,
forever flowing;

(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters
of human tears?)

² I see, just see skyward, great cloud-masses,

Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mix-
ing,

With, at times, a half-dimm'd, sadden'd, far-off star,

Appearing and disappearing.

³ (Some parturition rather—some solemn, immortal
birth:

On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,

Some Soul is passing over.)

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DAREST THOU NOW O SOUL.

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?

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.

³ I know it not, O soul;

Nor dost thou—all is a blank before us;

All waits, undream'd of, in that region—that inaccessi-
ble land.

⁴ Till, when the ties loosen,

All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, bound
us.

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.

OF HIM I LOVE DAY AND NIGHT.

OF him I love day and night, I dream'd I heard he was
dead;

And I dream'd I went where they had buried him I
love—but he was not in that place;

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;)

The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the
Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta,
were as full of the dead as of the living,

And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead than of the
living;

—And what I dream'd I will henceforth tell to every
person and age,

And I stand henceforth bound to what I dream'd;

And now I am willing to disregard burial-places and
dispense with them;

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;

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;

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;

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

I do not doubt but the majesty and beauty of the world
are latent in any iota of the world;

I do not doubt I am limitless, and that the universes
are limitless—in vain I try to think how limitless—

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;

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;

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;

(Did you think Life was so well provided for—and
Death, the purport of all Life, is not well pro-
vided for?)

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;

I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen, any
where, at any time, is provided for in the inher-
ences of things;

I do not think Life provides for all, and for Time and
Space—but I believe Heavenly Death provides
for all.

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,

Matter is conqueror—matter, triumphant only, continues
onward.

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,

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;

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;

Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd
Soul, eludes not;

One's-self must never give way—that is the final sub-
stance—that out of all is sure;

Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life—what at last
finally remains?

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;

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,

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,

The triumphant tutti—the funeral wailings, with sweet
flutes and violins—all these I fill myself with;

I hear not the volumes of sound merely—I am moved
by the exquisite meanings,

I listen to the different voices winding in and out,
striving, contending with fiery vehemence to
excel each other in emotion;

I do not think the performers know themselves—but
now I think I begin to know them.

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,

As I lean and look through the glimmering light—that
one has utterly disappear'd,

And those appear that are hateful to me, and mock me.

HERE, SAILOR!

WHAT ship puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckon-
ing?

Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the chan-
nel, a perfect pilot needs?

Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect
pilot,

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;

Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of
itself;

Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.

² And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of
space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the
spheres, to connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be form'd—till the ductile
anchor hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,
O my Soul.

THE LAST INVOCATION.

1

AT the last, tenderly,

From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,

From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of
the well-closed doors,

Let me be wafted.

2

Let me glide noiselessly forth;

With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a
whisper,

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,

I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies:

(Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest accord-
ing.)

PENSIVE AND FALTERING.

PENSIVE and faltering,

The words, the dead , I write;

For living are the Dead;

(Haply the only living, only real,

And I the apparition—I the spectre.)

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