Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

contents | previous | next

WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time,

Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature's sake, and
sweet life's sake—and death's the same as life's,

Souvenirs of earliest summer—the birds' eggs, and the first
berries;

Gather the welcome signs, (as children, with pebbles, or
stringing shells,)

Put in April and May—the hylas croaking in the ponds
—the elastic air,

View Page 97

Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,

Blue-bird, and darting swallow—nor forget the high-
hole flashing his golden wings,

The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,

Spiritual, airy insects, humming on gossamer wings,

Shimmer of waters, with fish in them—the cerulean
above;

All that is jocund and sparkling—the brooks running,

The maple woods, the crisp February days, and the
sugar-making;

The robin, where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,

With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,

Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, build-
-ing the nest of his mate;

The melted snow of March—the willow sending forth
its yellow-green sprouts;

—For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and
what is this in it and from it?

Thou, Soul, unloosen'd—the restlessness after I know
not what;

Come! let us lag here no longer—let us be up and
away!

O for another world! O if one could but fly like a
bird!

O to escape—to sail forth, as in a ship!

To glide with thee, O soul, o'er all, in all, as a ship o'er
the waters!

—Gathering these hints, the preludes—the blue sky,
the grass, the morning drops of dew;

(With additional songs—every spring will I now strike
up additonal songs,

Nor ever again forget, these tender days, the chants of
Death as well as Life;)

The lilac-scent, the bushes, and the dark green heart-
shaped leaves,

Wood-violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called
innocence,

Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for
their atmosphere,

To tally, drench'd with them, tested by them,

Cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes

View Page 98

My mind henceforth, and all its meditations—my reci-
tatives,

My land, my age, my race, for one to serve in songs,

(Sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life,)

To grace the bush I love—to sing with the birds,

A warble for joy of Lilac-time.

contents | previous | next